


Home Is Wherever I'm With You

by cydonic



Series: Flowers in our Eyes [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adoptive family, Alternate Universe - Children, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Thinks He's Smooth, But then it's, Dogs, First Time, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, House-Flipper, Kid Fic, M/M, Meet-Cute, Meet-Ugly, Neighbours, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Renovations, Slow Burn, Small Sassy Child Rogers, Spoilers: He's Not, Strangers to Friends, children killing the mood, handyman, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-03-07 06:57:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 88,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18868081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cydonic/pseuds/cydonic
Summary: This is what happens when you buy a house to flip having only seen the online images: you get more than you bargained for. Bucky Barnes brings all the tools to handle a dilapidated home, but he's hardly prepared for a smart-mouthed child (with poor aim), a crying baby, and the hottest dad he's ever seen in his life living right next door.That House-Flipper!AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [odetteandodile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/odetteandodile/gifts).



> There are many warnings to heed for this, namely:  
> 1\. I have absolutely no idea how home renovations work, and barely painted a house without screwing it up. Please don't come for me because everything I've written has been from some WikiHow article.  
> 2\. I don't have children. I teach them, and that's where I know their weird ways from. I wouldn't trust me to sustain the life of one long-term.  
> 3\. I'm not American and, despite the amazing help of Certified American [Odetteandodile](https://odette-and-odile.tumblr.com/) there may be weird Australian-isms here. I'm not sorry.  
> 4\. This is all due to be finished and posted by June 5th. If I was a better person I'd have it all ready to go and have a proper chapter schedule. As it is, please just check in occasionally. There'll probably be an update every few days.
> 
> With that aside, please enjoy the longest thing I've ever written! It has taken precedence over work for my real life, bill-paying job, so oops. The inspiration came from some amazing art (SERIOUSLY amazing just wait for it), and the fact that I own that House Flipper game on Steam.
> 
> Thank you to all the people who helped put together the [Captain America Reverse Big Bang](https://capreversebb.tumblr.com/) because it's been so much fun!

Glancing up at the property that is now - officially - his, is enough to give Bucky second thoughts.

From the carport, where Bucky’s pickup is parked, the view is significantly different from what he knew of the front. That’s the only view Bucky’d had before putting in an offer on the place, a glancing look over the age-weary white cladding and the dirty windows.

Buying a place based only on the real estate shots and property report is, perhaps, not the best way to get a feel for it. Bucky’s eyes drift across the wall - particularly the sprinkler shaped curve of black mould along the bottom of the cladding - taking it all in.

Well, there’s a reason the place was cheap, and being cheap was the thing that drew him in. Bucky typically makes it a rule to check all places in person before putting in an offer, but this - _this_. Listed for $78k, they accepted his offer of $75k, in an area where he could reasonably sell a three-bedroom house for upwards of $100k. There was quick, easy profit to be made - and since the property report came back with no _major_ structural damage (which is to say, no damage Bucky couldn’t repair himself), it was easy enough to throw his hat into that ring. Which leads him to a small suburb in Rochester, catching the fall leaves as they turn, looking at a house that is definitely more work than any he’s had before.

Sarge nudges against Bucky’s legs, letting out a whine of frustration, the cause of which could be multiple things: hunger, boredom, tiredness. The Rottweiler cross everything mutt was never too fussy about where he slept, but he was giving the patchy grass a sceptical look.

“Yeah, alright,” Bucky says at last, drawing the gate closed behind his car. The gate screeches on its hinges, the oiling of which gets added to Bucky’s already novel-length to-do list, before it latches in place.

Around his feet, Sarge continues to complain loudly, making a thorough nuisance of himself as Bucky starts unpacking.

This isn’t his first rodeo, so to speak, and Bucky’s honed his skill for moving using only a few duffel bags and the barest of furniture necessities. Sarge, spoiled brat that he is, takes priority in the unpacking timeline: his bowl is placed down on the back porch and topped up with dry food, which he eagerly digs into. Bucky casts an experimental glance at the rusty outside tap, which is partly obscured from view by the plants its constant dripping has been feeding for - however long it’s been since someone lived here. Sarge can have water from inside, for now. Bucky wouldn’t clean himself with that thing.

While he leaves the dog to gorge himself on biscuits and investigate his new domain, Bucky drags his duffels inside. He’s seen the floorplan online, but again, being there in real life? So much different. The rooms are barely big enough for him to spin around in with his arms out without hitting something, and there’s no logical progression through the house. In lieu of a hallway, like many homes of its era, it just has an ongoing maze of room after room after room. The kitchen, bathroom, and laundry are only discernible by the tiles. Everywhere else is dark and musty, the floors and walls coated in - substances Bucky doesn’t want to think about just yet.

He unrolls his futon mattress in the largest, cleanest room he can find, and sets an old lamp on the floor beside it. Experimentally, Bucky plugs it into the outlet, and is pleased when it flicks on. So, the utilities got connected. That’s good.

His clothes get hung in the closet, and Bucky stocks the kitchen with the canned food he bought for both himself and Sarge (okay - two _different_ types of food, just all canned, he wasn’t that desperate yet).

Into the second largest (but certainly _not_ the cleanest room) goes a drop sheet, and then all of Bucky’s tools. The carpet more than likely needs replacing, but he’s not going to ruin it any further for no good reason.

The bathroom is the one place Bucky knows he needs to start working on immediately. The shower - he’s going to have to wear shoes into it, because that looks like the sort of place to give you diseases. He’s driven six hours to get here, and the sun is starting to set, and Bucky just wants to eat and sleep but -

“Fuck it,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair - the lingering warmth making it droop now.

Bucky goes to get the bleach and one of many scrubbing brushes he owns. The least he can do is make sure he can shower in peace.

—

Sleeping in a new place is always weird. Bucky’s come up from a stay with his parents after selling his last place - the market flopped, so after taxes and commission to the real estate agent, he’s barely made more than a few thousand dollars. Staying with his family, at least, felt - and smelled - like home.

This place feels like some old lady died in it a few years ago and no one bothered to air it out since. When Bucky makes dinner, he finds a chipped old teacup hiding in the back of one cupboard. _Definitely_ an old lady.

He’s up bright and early, mostly because the house doesn’t have any curtains so the sun intrudes around 7am. Sarge is barking at something in the yard, and Bucky figures it’s as good a time as any to get started on his day.

The bathroom came up tolerable, after a good hour of bleaching and scrubbing, but it’s still not good. Bucky needs to get a new shower head as soon as possible, because half of the nozzle doesn’t work at all and the water pressure is dismal.

It goes on the list. The actual, paper list that Bucky keeps whenever he works on a place. It’s a crappy old notebook, the spiral-bound aspect of it slowly branching off into strange, chipped-wire shapes. He’s already filled a few pages for this house, and he’s been here less than twenty-four hours.

Bucky lets Sarge indoors while he eats some beans straight out of the can and makes a plan of attack.

The bathroom is Bucky’s priority for today - kitchen after that. The places necessary for living are the most important in his books, and then the rest can fall into place. There’s a laundromat in town he can use until he figures out what he’s doing with the laundry.

When Bucky had cleaned the bathroom, it had come - not good, but bearable. Now that it’s daytime and he’s had some sleep, it’s easier to cast a critical eye over the place. It’s obvious that someone very unqualified for the job tried to renovate the bathroom at some point. Presumably the 80’s, given the fact that the tub and sinks are all a horrible salmon pink shade. Them being nearly thirty years old and a shitty DIY job explains why every single fucking faucet drips incessantly.

Bucky could clean out the place as best as possible and repaint the tub so the colour was less offensive, or install an entirely new bathroom. Each way has pros and cons. Pro: new bathtub, no need to spend the entire day scrubbing away mould and mildew. Con: money, installing a new bathtub.

A quick glance at his bank account - and at the ever-growing to-do list Bucky has in hand - makes the decision for him.

—

If only this whole house flipping business was as glamorous as the shows lead people to believe. Bucky has spent the entire day on his hands and knees, mask on his face, studiously scrubbing at every inch of the bathroom. It’s slow going. There’s some mould that has been there since the late 80’s at best, and with each layer removed it feels like he’s uncovering something more. Like those people who look at tree rings. He could age the bathroom on the layers of mould and soap scum.

It’s nearly two in the afternoon when he comes up from scrubbing and stretches out his body. Four hours of nonstop cleaning could really do a number on your back, he was learning. Bucky’s been avoiding going to the hardware store, just because he’ll spend hours in there _avoiding_ the work he must do, but it can’t be ignored any longer.

He’s gotta go get himself some paint and some new fittings for the bathroom, which is only the start of a multi-day endeavour to get the room looking up to scratch. It’s probably also a good time to get some fresh groceries, because the canned food he nabbed from his mother’s cupboard isn’t going to cut it forever.

Sarge lets out a petulant whine when it’s made clear that he’s not invited on the trip, left leashed up on the porch because he will undoubtedly make a run for the gate while Bucky’s getting the car out, and then he’s off on his adventure.

—

Bucky makes it out of the Home Depot near him in under an hour, which is honestly a record-breaking attempt. Ever since he was a kid, he’d always loved looking down every over-sized aisle, and picking up things he had no use for. Not a whole lot has changed since then, except now he has the funds to buy all the weird and wonderful things that catch his eye.

The grocery store gets less of an excited response, and Bucky is in and out within half an hour. He’s not the sort of guy who likes to make fancy meals. Bucky is happy enough with the basics. He buys bread and peanut butter, some meat and vegetables to fill up the bar fridge he tied to the back of his pickup, and then a box of instant ramen for when it’s all too hard. He loads up on extra canned food, a jar of instant coffee, and some long-life milk, and he’s good to go.

Bucky makes it home, screeches the gate back open, and ignores the indignant sounds Sarge is making from his sulk-spot on the porch. He’s just lugging the last bag of supplies in when there’s a sudden rise in the tone of Sarge’s whine.

He turns around to complain at the dog, when he notices what Sarge is anxiously heading towards.

There’s a small head poking over the top of their fence. The head belongs to a girl with fine, blonde hair, and a critical look on her face.

“Who are you?” She asks, giving him the most intense once-over he’s ever received.

Bucky is taken off-guard, and in the extra moment it takes for him to reply to the little blonde interrogator, she carries on. “You’re our neighbour.”

“Uh, yeah, I am,” Bucky says, placing down the bag of paints. “I’m Bucky. It’s nice to meet you.” He trails off, voice raised in a question, but the girl doesn’t seem to notice or care.

She scrunches her nose instead. “You got Miss Bonnie’s house.”

“I sure did.” Bucky answers, pushing his hair back off his forehead again. It’s an unconscious habit of his around people - he doesn’t bother doing much to his appearance when he’s working, but now he wishes he didn’t look so much like he’d just been scrubbing a bathroom all day. Even though that’s exactly what he’s been doing. “Did she, uh, move away?”

The nose scrunches grow deeper. Bucky wants to make a joke about the wind changing like his ma used to do to him. “She died.” Blondie says it so bluntly that Bucky is taken aback by her even further, and fumbles his words in response.

“Oh, that’s - I’m really sorry, that’s-”

“People die,” Blondie continues, and Bucky isn’t sure if she’s bothered by this or not. Seemingly not. “Didn’t you know that?”

Bucky clears his throat. “I did, it’s just still - bad.”

She hums, as if she only popped her head up to make him feel incredibly uncomfortable. Then: “can I have my ball back?”

“Your what?”

She points one hand vaguely in the direction of his yard. The grass is alternating patches of overgrown and dead, but Bucky can see multiple balls. There’s a tennis ball which is sun-bleached a sickly yellow colour, a softball looking slightly healthier, and a pink ball with little horses all over it.

“Which one’s yours?” Bucky picks them all up, holding them out for the girl to observe.

“All of them,” she answers, the hand she was pointing with now making a grabby gesture.

“Alright,” Bucky says, and throws the softball over the fence.

Blondie watches it sail past, as does Sarge, who starts barking and tugging at the lead Bucky hasn’t undone yet. It’s then that the girl lets out a high-pitched squeal, and Bucky freezes as if he’s done something terribly, horribly wrong.

“You have a _dog_!” She squeaks, grabby hands now trained on Sarge.

That makes Bucky relax more. People liking his dog - big and gangly and a mishmash of everything - makes him happy. Sarge is good, if not loud. “I do. Do you wanna pat him?”

The responding squeal must be an affirmative, he thinks, and Bucky finishes dumping the balls in Blondie’s yard before grabbing Sarge’s leash. He’s good with kids, particularly Bucky’s nephew, so he doesn’t have any worries about that. Plus, they used to go to the dog park all the time, and the only problems Sarge had were not realising he was big enough to topple someone over.

Blondie’s eyes are wide as saucers as Sarge approaches, and Bucky taps his hand on the dry, old fence to encourage him to stand up against it. Sarge does as he’s told, sniffing the girl eagerly as she drops a hand to try and reach him.

Sarge licks her hand excitedly, leaving long strings of slobber behind. Blondie’s laughing her head off, thoroughly enjoying herself, until something happens on the other side of the fence and she straightens.

“Thank you,” she says, politely, before dropping from sight completely.

Sarge still has his paws up against the fence, sniffing where there existed a girl only moments ago. Bucky is staring quite blankly at the empty space, too.

“Guess you made a new friend, huh?” Bucky chimes, once Sarge lowers back onto all fours. He undoes the lead and watches as Sarge immediately goes to inspect the previous location of three free balls he could’ve been playing with all day. He wasn’t the smartest dog going.

—

Balls ending up in their yard becomes somewhat commonplace after that.

It’s always around the same time every afternoon, 4 or 5pm. Bucky assumes, when he stops to think about it, that Blondie is definitely school-aged and thus probably gets outdoor play after finishing homework or something. Do they still do homework in schools? He’ll have to check with Becca.

Well. Not that it _really_ matters. He’s just curious.

Blondie often pokes her head over after the ball, but she’s never looking for him. She’s always tapping the nails of one hand on the fence to summon Sarge, who will eagerly lick at her hand if he’s unleashed or whine petulantly until he’s allowed to go slobber all over her. It’s almost as though the ball is a convenient excuse to pat the dog, but Bucky won’t begrudge her that. Sarge is a big softie and so, it seems, is Bucky.

They spend a week or so like that, Bucky being the ball deliverer, Sarge the lick provider, until one day he’s out of town all day. Bucky has, up until this point, been enjoying the ease of it all. His painted tub and sink look good - unfortunately, the painted-over tiles do not, and he’s forced to trek a few hours each way to get the ones he really wants. Growing up with parents who made a big deal out of giving their children anything more than the necessities was something that inspired a certain frugality in Bucky. He’s willing to spend, sure, but it’s _really_ gotta be worth it. It just so happens that the small charcoal tiles with alternating patterns on them that can only be found in a store a three-hour drive away are just what Bucky wants.

Driving all day for tiles. Who said house flipping wasn’t a glamorous profession?

Bucky arrives home at about six, the still-horrendously-squeaky gate welcoming him back to the house. On an ordinary day, said ball would’ve spent an hour or two tops in the yard. Sarge is normally pretty good.

On this Saturday, a day where Blondie could feasibly be outside playing with her ball early enough to give Sarge a good eight-hour time window to destroy it when it comes flying into their yard, the ball is not so lucky.

Bucky clambers out of his truck, hoisting bundles of tiles over to the porch, he notices Sarge looking very proud of himself. He’s still on the leash, but he’s got something in his mouth. It looks like taffy, baby pink with teeth marks through it. It’s not until Bucky approaches (still carrying the very heavy box of tiles) that he notices the trail of smaller, glittery-pink pieces from Blondie’s usual dumping ground to Sarge’s comfortable spot by the porch.

Bucky places the tiles on the ground with a thud, and Sarge stands up as if to offer the gift to his owner. It’s slobbery, pieces of grass and sand stuck to it, and absolutely mutilated beyond belief.

“Seriously?” Bucky snatches the piece of plastic from Sarge’s mouth, ignoring the complaint growled his way. He picks up the rest of the pieces, trying to assemble them in some ball-like fashion. He’s not sure why this is the ball Sarge has decided to eat - maybe because, ordinarily, Bucky’s around to stop him before he gets too invested in it. Maybe this was payback for him being chained up all day, unable to go and get the desired patting from his new friend.

Whatever it is, Bucky feels immediately like shit. Like he was the Grinch, if you ignored the fact that it was September.

He goes inside long enough to switch on the porch light then returns, laying out the pieces on the porch now, shoving away the adventuring muzzle that comes his way every ten seconds or so. “You’ve caused enough trouble already today,” Bucky growls in a voice that is very much ‘ _I can_ _’t stay mad at you and I know it but I’m sure as hell gonna try_ ,’ as he assembles the pieces to make out the image on the front.

_To Becca: Attached: 3 image(s)._

_Becca!!!!!!!!!!! Wtf are these things?? Please help!!!!_

Having a sister with a child is good for many things. One: you got to be the cool uncle. Two: you can fulfil any paternal urges with ease, then hand them back once you’ve had your fix. Three: when your dog destroys a neighbour’s toy, you can figure out what the weird, multicoloured horses are and try to find an equivalent.

Bucky scoops up the image he’s made on the porch, dumping all the pieces into the bin - and now he’s getting the silent treatment from his own dog, who refuses to look at him after such behaviour. Whatever.

The tiles finally get inside and are placed on the bathroom floor. Bucky starts on dinner, involving one vegetable just so his mother doesn’t call him using her terrifying sixth sense for how healthily her children are eating, and waits to hear back.

He’s halfway through dinner - and all is forgiven between him and Sarge since Bucky undid the leash and let the big lump inside - when his phone vibrates several times in succession. Bucky is used to his sister’s style of texting, a stream of consciousness flow of ideas directly to his inbox.

_From Becca: what the fuck did you do_

_From Becca: that’s some buffalo bill skin suit shit right there_

_From Becca: you aren’t allowed within fifty feet of my kids ever again psycho_

He knows it’s all in good fun - and it brings a small smile to his face - but Bucky actually needs to know _what_ the things are so he can figure out how to replace the destroyed ball. It’s only polite.

_To Becca: It wasn’t me!!!! It was this jerk._

_Attached: 1 image._

Sarge doesn’t realise why his photo is being taken, but he dopily makes a move for Bucky’s pasta while his hands are occupied with the camera. He comes away with only a chunk of broccoli, which gets spat onto the floor unceremoniously.

_From Becca: anyway what do you mean what are they?_

_From Becca: and Sarge how could you._ 😭

Bucky picks up the broccoli with a tissue, leaving it beside the garlic bread crust on his plate.

 _To Becca: Look our neighbour is shit at ball sports and she keeps throwing the ball over our fence and I need to get her a new one. But what am I looking for?? What are the characters from?? You_ _’re a mom don’t you know this??_

The responding message comes with a very clear message: that Bucky is an idiot.

_From Becca: it’s my little pony you idiot_

Rebecca never was the type to mince words.

_To Becca: Thanks I guess._

—

The next morning, instead of seeing Bucky get a start on removing the old, painted tiles and replacing them with the nice new ones he acquired, finds him lining up at the toy store waiting for it to open. The Toys R Us is huge and should _surely_ have some spherical object related to My Little Pony that Bucky can offer as an apology. If not - well, he’s not sure what else kids like.

The two other mothers there regard him with some amount of scepticism (probably the fact that he’s in paint-covered work clothes) until he wins them over with a bright smile and a chat about their mornings. When the doors open, Bucky holds a hand out to usher them in first, and they giggle together. That’s the thing about charm - it never fails. Well, almost never.

Bucky doesn’t waste time, glancing at the signs above each aisle and speeding off towards the sports section. Sports, balls, that made sense - right?

He manages to find, first of all, every type of ball he _isn_ _’t_ searching for. Everything from cricket to soccer to football is covered, along with weird, neon-coloured spiky balls that serve some odd purpose. It’s when he’s headed to the outdoor play section (his next best bet) that he finds a giant, metal cage filled to the brim with branded balls.

There’s everything in there. He recognises Paw Patrol as That Show His Nephew Is Obsessed With, and there’s some Peppa Pig (the artist formerly known as Liam’s obsession) and even some shit he remembers from a childhood spent watching Sesame Street and other such shows. Bucky has no shame as he rifles through the ball cage, finally finding something that is pink and purple and glittery. It has a single pony on it - the one with pink and purple, namely - as opposed to the whole herd Blondie’s original had, but it’ll have to do. Bucky places it by his feet and dives back in, eventually finding one more Pony-themed object: the same as his purple and pink friend (Twilight Sparkle some looping, love-hearted-dotted-i’s font tells him), only this one is blue with a rainbow-haired pony on it (Rainbow Dash, the appropriately speed-blurred font exclaims).

Bucky, figuring two can’t hurt, gathers one under each arm and goes off to pay for them like the good person that he is.

Once home, Bucky checks that nothing has wound up in his yard before going around to the neighbour’s front door. He’s never actually met anyone else who lives there, just little Blondie. He knocks on the door and waits for it to open up. It’s mid-morning, so a decent time for someone to come over and visit, and it’s not long before he hears footsteps and the chain unlatching.

Blondie stands and looks up at him, frowning.

“Hey, kiddo,” Bucky greets, hoping this verbal interaction goes better than the last.

The nose crinkles. “Hello. What do you want?”

“Is your mom in?” Bucky asks, because talking to a kid without an adult present - kinda creepy, right? Bucky doesn’t need his reputation in this place to be something untoward. Especially not when he’s actively trying to do the right thing.

Blondie’s expression does something strange. Bucky’s only ever seen it neutral, confused, or delighted (no thanks to him). This is a strange mixture of different things that he can’t get a read on.

“No, she’s dead.” Blondie answers belatedly, and though she’s going for the same nonchalance she used when discussing Miss Bonnie, it’s clearly painful.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, before he realises - he doesn’t talk to kids much, okay? “Sh- I mean. Crap. I’m sorry. That wasn’t. Is someone else home? Your dad?”

It’s at that moment Bucky hears an entirely new voice. A man’s voice. Dad, maybe? Great - an adult. “Amelia Sarah Rogers, who are you talking to?” The threat in that message is very clear, and Bucky watches as Blondie’s - Amelia’s - eyes widen and she almost shrinks in upon herself.

To her credit, young Amelia Sarah Rogers (that’s a mouthful) stands her ground, even though her grip on the front door is white knuckled. “Dad, it’s the guy who lives next door with the dog.” She explains, and then her father is right there.

Bucky has the horrible feeling that he’s a. done something wrong; and b. is about to get his ass kicked.

The man who appears in the doorway is absolutely _built_ , like carved from stone kinda thing. Bucky isn’t even sure he can take the whole sight in at once. He’s got the same blonde hair as his daughter, and Bucky thinks the same eyes - they’re narrowed quite critically right now, so maybe it’s just the wrinkly-look that’s reminding him of Amelia.

Speaking of, the girl has completely disappeared. Bucky can hear retreating footsteps.

“What do you want?” The man asks, and yep, Bucky is definitely fucked. The man looks absolutely furious, and is blocking the door with his entire body so Bucky can’t see in.

“Look, I’m - super sorry. My dog - he, uh.” Bucky remembers earlier when he’d charmed two critical soccer moms without a single problem. Now he can’t get a word out normally. Fuck. “He ate your daughter’s ball yesterday. And so, I just came by - I got her two new ones. I wasn’t able to get the one she had, and I wasn’t sure if she liked - I got Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash.” Bucky holds out the large bag like a peace offering, the olive branch, hoping that it makes him look like less of a predator and more like the guy with the shitty dog.

To Bucky’s absolute shock, the man’s shoulders sag and his entire face softens. “Oh,” he says, then Bucky catches a pink blush creeping up his neck. “I thought she was finally getting better at soccer.”

Bucky lets out an incredulous laugh, which earns him a strange, but not mad look. “Nah, I get a ball over every day or so.”

“Well, I guess that’s my retirement plan gone.” Bucky gets the feeling that the jokes are this man’s own way of apologising, as he tentatively looks for Bucky’s response.

“Guess so. But it gives me one bit of human interaction every day, so that’s nice.”

“She talks to you?” Steve gets something of that dark expression back, and Bucky realises he’s just snitched. Damn it.

“Oh, no - I mean, she asked for her ball back. She asked to pat the dog. She mostly just glares at me.”

This garners a laugh, and Bucky feels some of the tension leave his own posture. “I’ll speak to her about her manners.” The man says, glancing over his shoulder. “You didn’t have to get her anything. Serves her right for getting stuff on your side of the fence.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bucky waves a hand. “It was nothing. She can have both, if she wants.” He once again offers the bag, and this time it’s taken.

“My name is Steve,” the man - Steve - says, offering his other hand to shake. It looks as big as Bucky’s head.

Bucky shakes it anyway. “Bucky.”

“If you need anything, just let us know, alright?” Steve says, and the conversation is clearly coming to an end. “Welcome to the neighbourhood.” He adds, and then he’s slowly shutting the door.

Bucky remains on their doorstep, dumbfounded, for a moment longer.

Then he remembers that he’s got an entire bathroom to retile, and he drags himself back home.

—

The sound quality from his old Bluetooth speaker isn’t much, but it gets the job done, blasting some 90’s Rock playlist from Spotify as Bucky chisels the tiles off one at a time. It’s not a fun job by any means, and his initial ‘ _get the bathroom sorted so you can bathe in peace_ ’ plan is very quickly going down the drain (ha) as he, as always, throws himself in too far. The sides of the bathtub are getting the retiling treatment now, and - once the mortar and grout have had a chance to fully set - he can move onto the shower. Bucky isn’t much of a bath guy, especially with how gross he gets when working, but he can suck it up for two or three days if it makes the horrible tile-painting job he did go away.

Bucky is considering - halfway _through_ removing the bathroom tiles, let it be known - whether he should just get the kitchen backsplash done at the same time when he hears something that isn’t the sounds of Weezer coming from his shoddy speaker.

He clambers up from where he’s wedged himself between the bathtub and the corner of the room, shirt covered in dust and sweat, and mutes the volume. There’s nothing for a long moment - possibly Sarge making trouble, but when Bucky considers it’s not even midday the odds of it being another ill-fated ball are low-ish.

Just as he’s about to put the music back on and return his protesting knees to another stint on the cold, tiled floor, the knock comes again. It’s a short, sharp pattern, and Bucky assumes it’s some kind of dutiful neighbourhood watch type, or someone trying to sell him something.

Either way, he stands up. It’s hard not to get a bit lonely doing this. The only human interaction he’s had lately was getting something akin to interrogated by his neighbour, and Bucky would actually really like someone to chat to. Hell, he’d willingly listen to some spiel about the bible if it meant someone friendly. Not that Steve wasn’t friendly - in the end he was, at least. Just weird. Overprotective.

Bucky brushes his dirty hands off on his jeans, adding to the collage of stains, and makes his way to the front of the house.

Upon opening the door, Bucky is surprised to find said neighbour standing on his stoop, looking rather sheepish.

Steve is appropriately dressed for their nice(-ish?) neighbourhood, with a button-down and khakis (also, typical dad attire). Amelia hovers around his feet in an arguably more casual combination of yellow shorts and a bright pink top. Bucky is late in noticing, too, that Steve is carrying another human in his arms - this one no more than six months old.

Bucky’s surprise must show on his face, because Steve offers him an awkward smile, and this is nothing like him getting staunched for trying to do the right thing.

“Hey, Bucky,” Steve begins, gently shifting the baby from one arm to the other so he can offer his right hand out. Bucky shakes it firmly, because he’s not rude - just surprised. “Listen, we - _I_ wanted to apologise for yesterday.”

Immediately what little tension Bucky was unknowingly carrying drifts away. “You don’t have to apologise,” he says, because that’s his usual go-to when someone says sorry to him. “Really, I can’t blame you. It’s probably weird to have a grown man show up with gifts for your kid.”

Steve winces. “When you put it that way,” he says but trails off, bouncing the baby in his arms a little when it starts to blubber. Bucky can remember when Liam went through that phase - little chatterbox he’d been, always gabbing on about something or other. That explains why Steve's eyes have dark circles under them, at any rate.  _Babies_. “Anyway, that’s not the point. I shouldn’t have been so - abrupt. So, we made you something. A proper welcome, which is what I should’ve done as soon as you got here. We’ve just been really busy.”

Steve looks like he could keep talking, but Amelia steps up and offers Bucky a Tupperware container. Bucky takes it with a smile and a, “thank you,” opening it up to reveal four child-decorated cupcakes.

Or, at least, Bucky _assumes_ they’re cupcakes. He can’t see anything other than a mess of sprinkles and sour straps and gummy bears and skittles, all crammed down with what must be white icing holding the lot of it together. It’s enough to give you cavities from looking, and Steve laughs a little awkwardly. “Did you make these?” Bucky asks Amelia, who beams happily - the first time she’s looked happily at him since meeting Sarge. Maybe Bucky has a chance after all.

“Of course I did,” Amelia states proudly, looking up at her dad for approval.

Steve laughs again, and Bucky isn’t oblivious to how different the sound is when it’s aimed at her. “Well, I sure didn’t.”

Amelia’s on her toes now, holding the container down so she can gesture to each of the cupcakes in turn. “That one’s for you - and then we put one in for the dog,” Steve makes a face and shakes his head, not that Amelia can see, “and then I didn’t know if you have kids or a wife because you _never_ talk about them,” and Bucky isn’t one to consider her demanding a ball and then demanding pats a series of conversations, but okay, he’ll let it slide, “but that’s for them.”

“You’re right, kiddo. I don’t have a wife or kids, and poor Sarge just had his lunch,” Bucky explains, trying not to dwell on how Amelia’s face falls, “but maybe you and your dad could help me eat them?”

Steve holds up his free hand. “We wouldn’t want to impose on you,” and Bucky gets it, he’s _that_ kind of guy.

“Don’t be stupid. I’m all by myself here, it’d be nice to have you and Amelia, and,” Bucky gestures at the baby, now sleeping soundly in Steve’s arms again.

“Emma,” he says, with a smile so beaming that Bucky can’t quite meet his eyes. Bucky loves his nephew, don’t get him wrong, but he’s never been so doe-eyed over kids before.

“She doesn’t get the middle name treatment?”

“She doesn’t open the door to strangers.”

Bucky laughs and sits down on the stoop, Amelia bouncing expectantly in front of him. “Which one was for the kid? You can have that one,” Bucky asks, holding the container out.

Amelia promptly grabs the best decorated one (Bucky could’ve sworn that was the one she said was his, but alright), dipping her fingers in the icing of all the others in the process. She’s midway through her first bite when she opens her sugar-filled mouth to ask, “can I play with the dog?” in a clogged-up sentence that Steve needs to translate for him.

“Sure,” Bucky says immediately, before noticing the way Steve’s brow pulls down. “How about I bring him out here for you? I gotta wash my hands before I eat anyway.” He holds them up, dark brown with dirt.

Amelia looks grossed out but acquiesces since she’s getting dog time out of it. Steve looks relieved. Bucky’s definitely getting the overprotective vibe loud and clear.

He stands up and ducks back into the house, going through the multitude of old, empty rooms. Bucky stops to wash his hands in the bathroom sink, which is otherwise a bombsite. Once he’s made it to the back door, Sarge is about ready to bust his way in, having heard the voice of the pat-giver. The big dope is jumping up frantically in front of the window, head bobbing in and out of sight through the glass pane in the door.

“Come on, you,” Bucky says, opening the door and ducking past the excitable bundle of dog to undo his leash and move it to the front. It should tie up on the banister out front, and if Sarge pulls the whole structure down, well - Bucky was going to replace it anyway.

When Bucky comes out the front, Amelia’s entire front is covered in cupcake. He smiles at the sight, because she is very quickly going to find herself the subject of a dog-tongue bath. Bucky’s holding Sarge by the collar and glances up at Steve who is cautious but not flipping out yet. “He’s a bit excitable, but he’s harmless. My nephew plays with him when we’re in town all the time, and he’s only four.”

“Well, I’m six,” Amelia says, like it’s a competition, displaying the numbers proudly using her fingers. “But I’m almost seven,” she adds, flicking another finger up to demonstrate to Bucky her upcoming age.

“That’s fine,” Steve says, a moment late, the tension obvious in the way he’s protectively cradling Emma to his chest and eyeing Sarge off.

Carefully, Bucky keeps one hand on Sarge’s collar as he loops the leash through the sturdiest part of the banister, and gives it a few experimental tugs. “Sit down,” Bucky instructs, pushing Sarge’s rump down to actually get him to listen, because he’s shit at that. Sarge’s tail is beating the ground so hard it must hurt, and Bucky smiles over at a very wary Steve and a very excited Amelia.

“Hold your hand out - he might lick you.” Might being an understatement. As soon as Amelia’s thrusting her sugary fingers at Sarge, he’s slobbering all over them. Steve winces. Bucky smiles soothingly up at him, but that doesn’t help as much as Amelia’s pleased giggles do. “See, she’s friendly. You know her.” Bucky tells the dog, who is now licking his way up Amelia’s arms to get to the treat on the front of her shirt.

Slowly, Bucky releases Sarge and he doesn’t do anything unexpected, just continues to bathe Amelia as she shrieks with glee. Bucky goes to stand beside Steve, who lets out a very audible sigh.

“Liam is a terror, and Sarge is nothing but gentle. Promise he won’t do anything to hurt her. He just wants some dessert.”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve says, forcing himself to sit down on the stoop. Bucky joins him. “Is Liam your nephew?”

Bucky nods, picking up his own cupcake now and pulling the candy off the top to eat first. “Yep. My big sister’s kid. He’s pretty cute.” Bucky’s not into all the weird parent talk some people do. Liam is funny and cute and loves Sarge almost as much as Bucky does, that’s all that matters to him.

“That’s nice,” Steve is starting to relax now as Amelia plays with Sarge, jogging away and watching as he follows as far as the lead allows. “You don’t have kids of your own?”

“Nah,” Bucky replies with a shrug, peeling back the cupcake wrapper to take a bite out of it. His dentist will kill him. “I move around a lot for work, so it would be kinda hard. That, and I haven’t got anyone to have a kid with, so.” Another shrug.

Steve looks pained by this, though Bucky can’t tell why. He stares at Amelia, then down at Emma. “What do you do for work?” He asks, late, looking back up at Bucky with a forced smile.

Bucky can’t help but feel like he’s only making things worse, though he can’t understand why. He’s trying to be nice. Steve is not only over-protective, but… just plain strange. “I flip houses.” At Steve’s vague look, Bucky elaborates: “I buy cheap houses and renovate them for sale. That’s what I’m doing here.” He gestures over his shoulder at the rundown exterior they’re sitting in front of.

“Oh, right,” Steve says, shuffling Emma about as she starts to grumble again. “So, you’re pretty handy, then?”

Bucky laughs. “I’d hope so.”

Steve makes a small noise, maybe a laugh, and looks back at Amelia as she tries to throw a leg over Sarge’s back and ride him. The dog isn’t mad, but he’s so excited at the attention he can’t sit still long enough for her to clamber onto him. “And what do you do?” Bucky asks, because this is how small talk works, right?

“Uh,” Steve begins, which is a reassuring noise, “contract work, I guess. Like - handling them. I was in the Army, and when I got discharged, I hung around. Just in a different way.”

Bucky looks Steve over, and he can see the military thing. It’s certainly there in the way Steve is built. He looks like a tank in human form, and Bucky wonders how he can be so gentle yet so clearly _ripped_. It’s also there in his constant vigilance, over his daughters and just in general. His eyes keep flicking up and down the street, and Bucky hasn’t missed the not-so-subtle over the shoulder glances. “You like it?”

Steve makes another one of those noises. “I need the money for the girls. It - pays all the bills, so yeah.”

“What else would you do?” Bucky presses, because he’s always been a bit nosy. “If you didn’t need the money.”

This time Bucky can hear the wistful sigh Steve looses. “I always wanted to be an artist.” The small smile he has he turns to Emma as he gently runs a finger over her downy hair. “I like being a parent, too. I didn’t realise - how much I would.”

Bucky catches himself before asking more about the kids, because he can still remember Amelia’s startling remark about their mother being dead. “Artist, huh? You can come paint the house for me.” He nudges Steve in the side jokingly, and he gets the sincerest smile yet - though it’s probably just the remnants of what he’d been directing at Emma.

“Don’t know if you could afford me,” Steve fires back, and that makes Bucky laugh again.

They lapse into silence for a moment, Bucky finishing off the cupcake so that Amelia doesn’t glare at him. Steve makes an attempt at his but doesn’t get much beyond the sour straps embedded in the icing.

“Is this what you want to do?” Steve asks later, and Bucky’s been staring at the game Sarge is playing that he hasn’t noticed Steve watching him.

“Renovating?” Steve nods as clarification. “Yeah, I love it. I guess one day I’ll have to settle down somewhere, but for now it’s good. I get to see all sorts of places, make some money, fix problems.”

“How long does it take, to fix up a house?” Steve asks, looking at Bucky with genuine interest now.

Bucky makes a gesture with his hand, holding it flat and tipping it side to side. “Could take any amount of time. This one’ll probably be a while since I moved in in September. Best way to do it is buy at the end of winter and get all the work done when the weather is good. The price here was just too good to pass up. I won’t get much done over the holidays - Ma’d kill me if I missed Christmas, and I usually help Dad out with work when I’m around.”

Steve laughs again. “Sounds like our parents were the same. But my Ma passed when I was younger.”

Bucky is glad he doesn’t have to be the bad guy this time, asking questions about someone who’s already dead. “Shit, I’m sorry.” And there he goes, swearing in front of kids again. He’s really not good at this.

He gets a hand wave in response. “Don’t be. It was a while ago. We spend the holidays with Aunty Sharon now.”

Amelia, as if summoned by the name, bounces up and down in front of them. It’s like she can teleport. “What’re we doing with Aunty Sharon?” She asks, excitedly.

“We go there for Christmas, baby, you remember,” Steve has such a softness about him when speaking to his kids. Bucky finds it ridiculously sweet. Too sweet for someone who looks like he could throw Bucky through a wall with ease. The scary part is, he’d probably be 100% down for that. He’s got a type, and Steve destroys it.

“Does she live far away?” Bucky asks, as Amelia returns to her new game of trying to train Sarge to jump over a held stick.

“About forty-five minutes. She helps look after the girls sometimes.”

There’s a sense of sorrow creeping back into the conversation, so Bucky lets it end there. Emma seems committed to the cause, too, because moments after they’ve lapsed into silence, she lets out a horrific wail.

Steve takes it all in stride, bouncing the girl who has gone from sound asleep to inconsolable in the space of a second. “I guess it’s lunch time for us, is it?” Steve asks her, standing up to rock Emma from side to side. It makes her cry harder. “Thanks for letting us come by.” Steve says, waving Amelia over until she’s tucked in front of his body. “What do we say?”

“Thank you?” Amelia says, looking up at her dad with some amount of uncertainty.

“It was my pleasure,” Bucky waves them off, stopping to pick up the Tupperware and pass it to Amelia. “Any time you guys want to come by, just - feel free. I’m always around.”

“Thanks, Bucky,” Steve says, shepherding his daughter the whole ten paces back to the house with practised ease. It seems like a challenge, given the amount of time she spends trying to duck back to play with Sarge some more.

When the Rogers family are safely back indoors, Bucky and Sarge stare at each other. “Probably should finish up in that bathroom, huh?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the lovely commenters and subscribers from chapter one! I hope you enjoy this next part.
> 
> PS. Have you taken a moment to [reblog this amazing art?](https://odette-and-odile.tumblr.com/post/184976603418/home-is-wherever-im-with-you-story-by-cydonic) Because if not, you should.

The bathroom goes better than expected. It takes about a week all up (because some idiot thought he’d redo the kitchen at the same time, which opened a can of non-tiling related worms, and which Bucky isn’t thinking about right now), but Bucky is finally able to shower the day’s work away in a room that isn’t a disgusting, salmon nightmare. The bathroom is neutral, now, all grey and white and clean chrome finishings. Bucky wouldn’t call himself a neutral person, but as far as prepping houses for sale goes, this is the way to do it.

Which just leaves the rest of the house to go, kitchen disaster included.

Bucky takes himself and Sarge on a celebratory walk, because one room down is something to be proud of. The weather continues to get colder, moving ever closer to the Christmas/New Year dead zone where all the stores are closed, contractors are on holidays, and Winifred Barnes is breathing down the phone _“so help me God, James Buchanan Barnes, if you are not back here by the 20th you are out of this family for good.”_

Sarge is surprisingly good on the lead when he’s taking a walk. He only tugs a little bit, and usually only to sniff at a place where another dog must have peed at some point. It’s important local history, for a dog.

About ten minutes from their house is a park, one where dogs are permitted off-leash and children make a ruckus on an extremely fancy looking playground. Sarge loves to go there because he gets his favourite thing: attention. Bucky also brings a ball, just in case they’re alone, so he doesn’t have to deal with disappointed puppy-dog eyes.

The clouds look grey and ominous, which explains why, as they round the corner, the parking lot is empty. There are no other dogs going around, sniffing each other’s butts, but there is a girl swinging upside down on the monkey bars and repeatedly screaming for someone to look at her.

As they get closer - and the voice gets clearer - it becomes obvious that it’s none other than young Amelia Sarah Rogers, hollering at the top of her upside-down lungs for her dad to watch her do some kind of trick. Bucky keeps Sarge on the lead as they approach, because as much as Amelia would love having her face licked right now, he doesn’t want to startle Steve into a murderous rampage.

Speaking of Steve, he’s on one of the parent supervision benches dotted around the perimeter of the soft, rubbery playground floor. He’s leaning over Emma, presumably trying to feed her.

“I’ll watch in a minute, honey,” Steve calls back to Amelia, who doesn’t let up on her complaining.

“Hey, kiddo,” Bucky announces, and both Steve and Amelia turn to look at him. “What’re you doing there?”

Amelia looks relieved that someone is there to appreciate her. “Watch!” She calls back, and then she’s pulling her tiny body up through the gap in two bars, until she’s sitting on top of the metal railings. “Look, did you see?” She interrogates from way up high.

“I sure did, you’re pretty good at that,” Bucky says, letting Sarge off the leash now that Steve has seen him and will (hopefully) not be shocked by a dog appearing near his child.

Sarge runs under the monkey bars and starts to jump, barking in frustration as Amelia laughs and kicks her legs underneath her.

Bucky wanders over to the bench, sitting down but leaving plenty of room for Steve. “Hey,” he says, watching Steve as he tries to get Emma to take the bottle. He looks exhausted - which seems to be pretty normal for him, only the dark circles are now more like bruises than they were before.

“Hi,” Steve manages, Emma’s fussy head turning away from the nipple at his every attempt. Steve places her down in the small dip where his thighs meet, puts the lid on the bottle, and runs a hand over his face.

“How are you doing?” Bucky asks, knowing already the answer is somewhere in the realm of not-good. Emma isn’t crying, but she is whinging and wriggling around on Steve’s legs.

“Yeah, I’m - we’re alright. Emma’s been so fussy lately. I didn’t realise how hard it would be,” Steve’s looking down at his little baby, gummy mouth complaining, with this expression of helplessness. Bucky isn’t even sure Steve’s quite registered who he’s talking to - his neighbour, who he’s only met twice before, and probably doesn’t even like that much.

Bucky perseveres. “Is there anything I can do to help?” The extent of his baby experience comes from supervised visits with Liam involving either his mother, or Becca, so he’s never had to do much on his own with babies. But he’s fed Liam before a couple of times, and he knows how to hold them and bounce them around.

Steve’s protective parent hackles rise, though Bucky doesn’t think he even realises how obvious it is. “No, I - I should be able to do it. We did it with Amelia. It’s just… maybe she’s teething, I’m not sure.”

Amelia is yelling at them again, and Sarge barks up at her.

Bucky glances up, and notices she’s crying too.

Damn it. Kids are so much work.

“ _Daddy_ ,” she’s wailing in a long, drawn out, wavering voice, “Daddy, I wanna get down.”

Steve looks ready to cry himself. Bucky cannot handle a three-person breakdown. He can barely handle a single person breakdown.

“Get down the same way you got up,” Steve yells back, and his voice is clearly one step away from breaking.

“I don’t know how,” Amelia cries back, and Sarge is anxiously shuffling in a circle beneath her.

Well, Steve won’t trust Bucky with his baby (honestly, not a bad choice on Steve’s part), but Amelia’s problem he can sort out a bit easier. “Do you want me to go get her down?” Bucky asks, figuring that he’s better off getting Steve’s permission before doing anything with his children, even if it is helpful.

That wariness flickers back through Steve’s tired eyes, but eventually logic wins out. “Please,” Steve asks in a small voice, and Bucky goes off to help her.

Amelia’s bottom lip is quivering dramatically when he approaches, and she looks at him with teary eyes. “Hey, I’m gonna help you down, alright?” Bucky would be so much better off if he was Steve’s height here, but he’s not. He can easily reach the bars from the ground, but in order to get Amelia down she’s going to have to trust that he’ll catch her when she’s close enough. “Shuffle over to this edge here.”

With a white-knuckled grip, Amelia drags herself over to the bar nearest to Bucky. When he holds his hands up, they reach her knees. He places them there gently - a promise. “I’m going to put my hands on your legs and hold you, and you’re just going to slide over to me, okay?”

Amelia’s first response is to shake her head furiously. “No, I’ll fall down,” she complains.

“You won’t, I’ll catch you. You just have to trust me, yeah?”

She shakes her head again.

“Amelia,” Bucky says, drawing out the patience he uses with Liam. “I can get you down, alright? I can hold you. But you just have to trust me. I promise I won’t let you fall.”

“Promise?” She asks in a watery voice, still gripping the monkey bars as if they’re the only thing keeping her from tumbling to her death. Probably, in her little mind, that’s what it feels like.

“I promise,” Bucky agrees, wrapping his hands around the bottom of her thighs. “Slide towards me.”

Amelia does so in tiny bursts, and Bucky’s able to grab the middle of her thighs before she’s at the point where she needs to slide her bottom off the bar and trust him completely. “I’m scared,” she admits in a small voice.

“I know you are,” Bucky says, aiming for soothing. “Just keep holding on to the bar with your hands, I’ll hold your legs, and it’ll be fine.”

Slowly, Amelia does, and as soon as she moves forwards gravity catches her and she’s tipping towards Bucky. He loosens his grip enough so he can catch her waist, and Amelia flings her arms around his neck (she does cop him one in the face in the process, which he’ll let slide). She grasps him like she did the bar, almost choking him, and Bucky lowers himself into a crouch. Once Amelia has her feet on solid ground, Sarge is licking her all over and turning her shaky breaths into tiny laughs.

After a few minutes of good licking, Amelia withdraws her hands from around Bucky’s neck and starts to pat Sarge.

“You alright?” Bucky asks, watching as Amelia’s hand is being constantly chased for more licking.

Amelia looks at him as if he’s weird, as if there aren’t still tear tracks staining her pink cheeks. “Yeah,” she states, before she’s running off to the other side of the playground with Sarge hot on her heels.

Bucky turns back to Steve, who is still sitting precariously on the verge of tears. Well, he helped with one breakdown, at least. He returns to the bench to pick up the tennis ball and plastic ball thrower he’d left there. “Do you want me to entertain her for you?” Bucky offers, nodding towards Amelia. Emma is still fussing, but Steve is bouncing her in his arms instead of trying to get her to eat now.

“That would be - really helpful. Thank you,” Steve manages, offering Bucky a watery smile that matches Amelia’s so closely. Family resemblance, huh. Little Emma, with her soft, brown hair, must take after mom, Bucky realises with a twinge of sadness.

“Don’t mention it,” Bucky says, imbuing his response with extra optimism to try and uplift the other man, before going off to teach Amelia how to play fetch with Sarge.

—

The kitchen disaster is still there when Bucky gets home, and then the day after that. He can’t ignore it in favour of sneaking off to the park with his dog and his neighbour, as much as Bucky wishes it was so.

The problem, as Bucky sees it, is that the dodgy DIY renovation job that had been done in the bathroom was relatively _good_ , all things considered. He’d fixed a couple of things up, but it was fine. Same person or not, Bucky didn’t know, but whoever had plumbed the kitchen had done an absolutely horrendous job. The wall in the cabinet beneath the sink (an at-home carpentry job, too) was damp, paint peeling off. When he cracked into it, the entire cavity surrounding the pipe was mouldy from a shitty join.

Bucky’s new look for the week was the rubber gloves/face mask/goggle one, which was surely very handsome if not for the fact that he was ripping out cabinets and then scrubbing mouldy walls. Getting rid of mould wasn’t hard - not when the source was known, which it was - but it was just a pain in the ass. Bucky was sick to death of fucking scrubbing, but hey, he signed up for this life, right?

Where possible he did sneak out to the park, or for a long-looping walk around town with Sarge. It would be ridiculous to suggest he tried to time it with when he heard Amelia shrieking about going to the park (noisy kids could be a blessing or a curse), but he spent a lot of time at the park with her and Emma and Steve.

Now that they’d gotten to talking - and Bucky had proven himself _not_ to be a threat - Steve was actually a pretty funny guy. Bucky’s initial assessment of Steve being the most attractive man he’d seen in a while (excusing his dad-attire) remained, and he’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t enjoying Steve’s company more than the girls. But Bucky also liked holding Amelia’s feet as she tried to swing on the longer monkey-bar course, and he was happy enough to bounce Emma while Steve took over play duty. Sarge liked it too - Amelia had a good arm on her.

“Maybe baseball can be your retirement plan,” Bucky remarked, nudging Steve in the side as they sat on the bench. Emma was sucking greedily at her bottle, while Steve watched Amelia forego the ball launcher and simply over-arm the tennis ball halfway across the park.

“Your poor backyard,” Steve had lamented, smiling fondly at Bucky in a way that was definitely not making appearances in his dreams.

It was stupid.

—

After a few days of airing out the kitchen and letting the area fully dry, Bucky is on his way to Home Depot to get supplies to re-plumb the kitchen. He’s aiming to be _that guy_ , showing up at opening because, hey, he’s got shit to do, when he can hear Steve cursing.

That is somewhat unusual. He’s one of those dads who doesn’t swear around his kids - at least not the ones who can understand it - and Bucky’s had to catch himself a few times to avoid that vaguely-scolding look Steve gives him.

Bucky, being taller than Amelia, is able to pop his head over the fence to investigate without the addition of an outdoor chair (that was a fact he’d learned when he’d gone to investigate how such a small critter was always able to pop in for pats). It’s not even 8am, it’s pretty damn cold, and Amelia is huddled up next to their car looking very sulky. Steve is on the phone, bouncing a fussy Emma who doesn’t stop her grumbling despite his best efforts.

“I need someone to come out _now_ ,” Steve explains, and while he hasn’t seen Bucky yet, Amelia has. She pushes off from the car and strides over to the fence, her cross look trained on Bucky now.

“What’s going on?” Bucky asks, carefully eavesdropping on Steve’s conversation because he can’t help himself.

Steve sighs, “nine won’t work, that’s far too late,” he’s complaining, offering Bucky a pained smile when he notices the other man. Bucky waves.

“Daddy locked the keys in the car,” Amelia explains, sour, “and I’m going to be late for school and Wednesday is my _favourite_ day because we have Drama first thing in the morning, and I’m going to miss it.”

“Ah,” Bucky offers sympathetically, as Steve aggressively slams the ‘call end’ button. Bucky can envision him slamming a handset into a receiver, but all drama left when they moved to a mobile society. It’s almost disappointing.

Steve looks tireder than usual as he crosses to the fence, which is saying something because the guy looks permanently _exhausted_.

“Do you want me to give Amelia a lift to school?” Bucky says before Steve can say anything, and he’s prepared himself for the protective glare Steve gives without thinking.

His expression doesn’t change. “I couldn’t ask you to do that, Buck.”

Bucky’s pretty hopelessly gone on that nickname, despite nearly every friend he’s ever had shortening it that way. “I’ve gotta go to Home Depot anyway, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Amelia perks up, turning her sunshine smile on her father. Bucky hasn’t seen it on Steve except for when he looks at his kids, but he knows where Amelia inherited it from. “Sweetie,” he starts, placing a hand on her bouncing shoulder. Bucky can see him looking for an out. Putting his little girl in the car with someone who is, at best, an acquaintance, is a lot. Bucky got chewed out for showing up at his house where Steve could actively protect her.

“Listen, why don’t you talk to her the whole way? I’ll walk her to class, the teacher can tell you she’s there fine, no worries.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Amelia whines in that long, drawn-out way kids have.

Steve looks ready to crumble. Bucky feels bad for the guy. It’s just him and two kids - and Bucky knows from experience that Emma doesn’t feel like sleeping through the night with any consistency.

“Only if you talk to me the whole way. And you get Mrs Webb to speak to me as well. Got it?” Steve says, voice firm, but Amelia doesn’t care and Bucky knows it’s directed at him anyway.

Bucky offers his hand over the fence for Steve’s phone. “I’ll put my number in now. It’s probably good for you to have it for just in case anyway.”

Steve tries again to smile, passing the cell to Bucky who quickly adds himself as a contact. “There you go. You can ring it now.”

Steve does, and Bucky’s phone chimes, playing _Around The World_ , because, as Rebecca puts it, Bucky never left the 90’s. Bucky connects the call, raises it and says hello. Steve looks placated by this, and gestures with his head to the back gate.

Bucky goes to his own and opens it up, Amelia appearing in front of him a moment later and gone the next to give Sarge pats. Steve’s still holding baby and phone, bouncing both. “Please take care of her,” Steve says, as Amelia places a kiss on Sarge’s head and gets a slobbery one in return on her cheek.

“Promise,” Bucky says, patting Steve on the shoulder in a way that he hopes communicates his sincerity. “Hop in, kiddo,” he says to Amelia, gesturing to his car. It’s not a family car like Steve has, but a truck, with only the front seat to pick from. Steve looks like he’s about to have a heart attack but says nothing.

Steve comes around to Amelia’s door and makes sure she’s strapped herself in properly, kissing her cheek (the non-dog-kissed cheek). “Be good, okay?”

“Stop it, Dad,” Amelia says, fidgeting away from him even though she’s grinning.

Bucky passes her the phone and hops into the driver’s seat himself, shutting the door.

He can see Steve talking, and can hear Amelia’s side of the conversation. Slowly - slowly enough to appease Steve - Bucky eases out of his bumpy driveway.

“Ask your dad if he can shut the gate for us,” Bucky says, and Amelia relays the instruction. Bucky can hear Steve laugh.

“He says okay,” Amelia answers for Bucky, and then they start talking about something Bucky doesn’t understand. It could be that pony show, or any one of the multitude of kids shows out there. There’s weird character names Bucky doesn’t concentrate on - he’s mostly trying to remember the way to the school, rather than eavesdropping now. He’s walked past it plenty of times, including one time with Steve and family, where Amelia excitedly pointed out her classroom from the footpath. Unfortunately, roads did not always go where paths did, and Bucky had to figure out how to get to the road he usually cut across the park for.

It takes a bit longer than it probably should, but Bucky manages to park up and get out with the droves of other parents. Amelia has a big backpack swung over her shoulders and she takes Bucky’s hand obediently as they cross the parking lot - clearly something Steve has trained her to do. Her other hand remains clutching Bucky’s phone, holding it up to her ear, and she occasionally gives input.

“Charlotte!” Amelia cries once they’re in the building and she’s about to run off when Bucky snatches her backpack - mostly out of habit from catching Sarge’s leash when he bolts - and holds her back. She squeaks down the line, and Bucky can hear Steve’s voice raise. “Let go, Bucky,” she complains, and god, she’s about to have a hit put out on his name with that kind of tone.

Bucky squats down in front of her as she pouts and looks away from him. “You can’t run off from me until we get to class, remember?” Bucky’s raises his voice to a volume high enough for Steve to hear. “Tell your dad what you just tried to do.”

“No,” Amelia says petulantly. In this time, Charlotte has come to stand with them, parentless.

“Who are you?” Charlotte asks Bucky, smaller and stockier than Amelia’s stretched-out figure. She has a pair of fingerprint-covered glasses balancing on her nose.

“Amelia,” Bucky says warningly, and the girl reluctantly explains how she tried to run away. Bucky is relieved when he can hear Steve scolding her down the line, not threatening to kill Bucky (which is an assumption Bucky is making, but it seems pretty on-point for Steve). He then turns to Charlotte. “I’m Amelia’s neighbour.”

“Oh. My neighbour is a cat. His name is Tuna.” Charlotte isn’t anything like Amelia, who will ask _“why?”_ until the other person loses their mind. She seems happy to just accept answers at face value. Thank goodness.

Bucky smiles, standing up now but keeping his hand on Amelia’s backpack. “I have a dog. Maybe you could see him one day. Are you in the same class?”

Charlotte beams up at Bucky and nods her head. “I wanna pat the dog.”

“Sure thing, kid,” Bucky agrees, and a bell starts to chime overheard. “Where’s your classroom?”

Charlotte points down the hall, and at Bucky’s insistence she starts to lead the way. Amelia is grumpily only giving Steve one-word answers at this point. The sight of her pouty face makes Bucky want to laugh, but that might not be appropriate.

Finally, they’re entering Room 4B. The teacher is a woman who looks like a hug personified, soft and round, with a beaming smile. “Good morning, girls,” she greets, and then her eyes meet Bucky. “Good morning.” The question in her welcome is obvious.

“Morning,” Bucky figures manners won’t go astray. “I’ve just dropped off Amelia for her dad. He’s on the phone, he just wants you to let him know she made it okay. I think he’s a bit worried.”

Mrs Webb waves a hand. “Of course.” She waits for Amelia to say a reluctant goodbye (and makes her add on an _“I love you,”_ just through a carefully narrowed eye, which convinces Bucky teachers have superpowers), before taking the phone herself. She gives Steve the all-clear, then hands Bucky his phone back.

“I’ll see you later, Amelia,” Bucky says, but the blonde has already disappeared behind a bookshelf with Charlotte.

Bucky lifts the phone back to his ear, expecting a dial tone, but Steve is still there. “Buck?”

It’s harder to hear in the hallway, because another bell has gone and suddenly kids are rushing everywhere. Bucky had thought it was busy before, but now it’s even worse. “Yeah?” he manages, just avoiding getting taken out by an overloaded backpack and a rapidly moving child.

“I just wanted to say thanks,” Steve sounds physically pained, which could be because he’s thanking Bucky or because he _is_ in physical pain. Bucky can’t quite tell. “I - I keep thinking I’m getting my shit together, then Emma will have a bad night and… y’know.”

Bucky doesn’t know. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he says, stepping out into the fresh air and kid-free carpark. He gets a relieved look from what he assumes is a dad, and this must be the best time of day for every parent. “Any time you need anything, Steve, you can just let me know, alright?”

A crackly noise comes down the line - a sigh. “I don’t want to make you do that.”

“I’m not doing anything else.”

“You’re always working,” Steve fires back. “It’s not fair of me to take you away from that.”

Bucky finds his way to his car, surrounded by other parents quickly fleeing the school grounds. “Don’t be stupid, Steve. I can work any time. If you need me, just let me know, alright?”

There’s another crackly sigh. “At least let me make it up to you.”

Bucky frowns, placing the phone on speaker so he can keep talking while he navigates his way out of the school carpark. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

“How do you plan on doing that?” Bucky asks as he makes his way back onto the main road. It takes one wrong turn before Bucky has his bearings, and he has to take the long way to Home Depot, but that doesn’t matter. “The making it up to me, not the insisting. I have a feeling you can be very persuasive when you want to be.”

Steve laughs. “Do you want to come over for dinner sometime? I can cook for you.”

The thought of a real, proper dinner - not the crappy bachelor dinners Bucky’s been cooking for himself - is the quickest way to win him over. “That sounds amazing. I just pulled out all the kitchen cabinets cause of mould, so it’s ramen for dinner for a while.”

“The college diet, huh?”

“Not that I was smart enough to get in, but yeah, something like that.”

“I’m sure you were smart enough. It’s not for everyone.”

“Did you go?” Bucky asks, pulling up to some traffic lights.

“Yeah,” Steve says, and it might be the connection, but he sounds almost - wistful. “I almost finished my degree, but I enlisted so I never quite got there.”

“What were you studying?”

“Fine Art.”

“Oh,” Steve mentioned art before, how he’d be an artist if he had any choice. Clearly that’d been the plan. “You got bored, or?”

“When my Ma died, I couldn’t afford to keep going, so… I just - dropped out,” Steve definitely sounds sad about that. Bucky feels like he’s kicking the man while he’s down. “That’s life, I guess.”

Bucky’s already pulling into the Home Depot parking lot, looking for the words to say. When he can’t find something appropriate, Bucky opts for avoiding the discussion: “Well - I’d love to try your cooking. If that offer's still on the table.”

“Any time, Buck,” Steve’s voice has perked up again, and Bucky’s relieved. “I should let you get back to it.”

Bucky thinks it’s probably too much to tell Steve that talking to someone is actually quite nice. When he calls home, all he gets is interrogations from his mother about his life. This, though it’s tip-toed around some heavier discussion points, feels nice. “I’m just going to Home Depot, I’m more than happy to narrate my purchases to you.”

Steve laughs again. “Maybe next time. I’ve got a grouchy little girl who needs a change. If you want to come over tonight, we’re having nachos.”

“That sounds amazing,” Bucky says - and, honestly, the only thing waiting at home for him is an incomplete kitchen and noodles. “I’ll see you then.”

“Bye, Bucky.” Steve says in parting, and then the line is beeping.

Bucky stares at his phone a moment longer, before getting out of the car. He can’t even remember what he came here for in the first place.

—

Bucky spends his time in Home Depot ignoring what he meant to get, and instead mulling over what to take to the thank you dinner.

He settles on purchasing all the piping he needs (after missing the aisle several times, consumed by thought), and stops in at the grocery store to get something to take. He considers wine or a six pack before deciding that Steve probably wouldn’t partake, given he had a baby prone to needing things at awful times. Dinner was sorted, and flowers seemed too much, so dessert it was. Bucky was a shitty cook, he accepted that, and wasn’t about to force Steve’s family to endure it, so buying some fancy cake from the bakery department seemed to safest option. It came pre-decorated with sprinkles, which would surely win Amelia over if the fact that it was a cake didn’t do so immediately, and Steve wouldn’t need to worry about cooking or cleaning up afterwards.

Bucky sends Steve a message letting him know, saving the number in his phone at the same time - which is definitely fine, given Steve has his number.

_From Steve: I thought this was for me to thank you?_

_From Steve: You shouldn’t be bringing anything, Bucky!!_

It feels good to have Steve answer him back so quickly, and in more detail than just an ‘ _ok_ ’ which Bucky had been secretly dreading. He takes a photo of the cake sitting on the passenger seat of his car, where Amelia had been not that long ago.

_To Steve: Attached: 1 image(s)._

_Oops I already did it._

The only response Bucky receives is the eye-roll emoji, which he chooses to take as a good thing.

—

The cake barely fits in Bucky’s mini-fridge, but he’s committed to making it work so some of his water bottles get demoted to the pantry. Bucky doesn’t reply to Steve’s text because there was nothing _to_ reply to, but he keeps an eye on his phone as he works.

While he’s gutted basically the entire wall, Bucky adds in the necessary plumbing for not only the sink, but the laundry too. He’s a firm believer that full-sized laundry rooms aren’t worth it, particularly when knocking out that room will allow him to add space onto the existing rooms and make them all bigger in turn. There’s a lot of demolition involved in that plan, and he’ll need to get a licensed electrician out to get the place wired up, but it’ll be worth it. People pay for space, now, and a laundry just doesn’t add into that equation.

Bucky won’t say he’s watching the clock, but when four rolls around he’s excited to finish up his work for the day and go shower. He’s still in the honeymoon phase with the new fixtures he put in the bathroom and spends longer than he typically would under the massage setting on the shower head. The heated towel rack was another genius idea, if he does say so himself, especially as the weather is going from the nice, summery side of fall to the bitterly cold one.

When Bucky moves anywhere, packing nice clothes isn’t a priority. Why would it be? He’s there for work, he brings work clothes: namely, jeans and old shirts, pre-stained so that he won’t feel bad when he inevitably adds to it in his new place.

Getting ready to go to Steve’s is stressful, for that very reason. Bucky always packs one nice-ish outfit, because you never know when you’re going to need it, but it’s literally just a pair of unstained jeans with a button-down. And Bucky doesn’t even know if dinner tonight is supposed to be fancy. It’s certainly not a date, right? Because there are kids there? And half the time Steve acts like he’s just waiting for Bucky to reveal himself as some nefarious kidnapper or something, so maybe he’s going to get tied to a chair and interrogated.

From the closet he’d bought with him, Bucky withdraws said fancy clothes and pulls them on. He knows he scrubs up well: he runs some gel through his hair, which has been neglected lately given his 7-day work weeks, and puts on the expensive cologne Becca got him last Christmas. Maybe it wasn’t a date, but Bucky was always keen to impress.

With the colder weather came another change to the routine - that is, Sarge sleeping indoors. He was a young enough dog and he liked being able to run around the backyard during the day, but the cold nights aren’t very pleasant for anyone. He has a bed on the floor in Bucky’s bedroom, and as soon as the sun begins to set he’s putting on his puppy-dog eyes at the back door to get inside quicker.

Tonight is Sarge’s lucky night, as Bucky normally doesn’t cave until after dinner.

“In you get,” Bucky says, unclipping the leash and stepping back so Sarge can barrel through the house and sniff everything. Even though the only body in the place was Bucky, he still liked to check it out. He drags Sarge’s bowl inside and tops it up with canned food, which draws the dog back into the kitchen to devour his dinner. “You be good, alright?” Bucky instructs, Sarge paying him no mind.

Carefully, Bucky extracts the cake from the fridge, locks the door, and heads a few steps down the road to the Rogers household.

He’s barely knocked on the door when Amelia flings it open and envelopes Bucky in a hug - which is unusual, given she was busy hating him that morning. Luckily, he has quick reflexes, and holds the cake up out of the danger zone.

“Bucky!” She shrieks happily, dragging him inside before he has a chance to process what’s happened. “Come and look at my room!” His hand is firmly grasped in both of Amelia’s and she’s facing him, almost like she’s digging in to pull him against his will.

Bucky laughs a, “hey, kiddo,” and he hears Steve yell something from the kitchen that could be directed at him or Amelia. Either way, it’s drowned out by the show running loudly on the TV - My Little Pony, Bucky identifies proudly - and Amelia’s excited talking.

“Come on, come and look,” Amelia’s complaining as Bucky slowly takes in the room he’s in. It’s certainly well lived in, and clearly a home with children, because there are small toys laying about everywhere. Bucky spots a mat on the floor with an arch over it, dangling toys hanging at intervals, and he figures that belongs to Emma. There’s a small couch folded out on the floor, hot pink and covered in butterflies, with a blanket draped over the arm.

Bucky shakes his hand loose of Amelia’s scarily tight grip. “I’ll follow you, just lemme say hello to your dad first.” Amelia huffs out a sigh and dramatically flops back onto her couch.

Bucky’s never denied that he’s a nosy guy, and he slowly makes his way through the living room. There are photos on the mantle of an unused fireplace: a lot of Steve in the army, posing with a bunch of guys Bucky assumes were part of his team. Squad. Whatever it’s technically called. There’s a couple of gaps where Bucky suspects photos may have once been, because out of all of the photos he can only find one of Amelia and Emma’s mother.

She’s looking down at the baby in her arms, the only visible part of her the rich brown of her hair. Must be where Emma got hers from. Bucky can’t say whether the baby is Amelia or Emma: she’s got fine, brown, downy hair, but that doesn’t mean anything. Liam had come out with a shock of brown hair too, which had promptly fallen out to make way for a dirty blonde that looked more like his father.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve greets properly, and Bucky jumps.

Fuck.

He must look like the kid who got caught elbow-deep in the cookie jar, crumbs on his face. “Sorry, I was just - looking at your pictures.”

The pained smile is to be expected, but Bucky still looks sheepishly away. “That’s alright. There aren’t many.” Steve says, by way of explanation. He extends his hands to take the cake from Bucky’s hands. “Amelia’s been so excited to show you her room, and dinner’s still a bit away, so you might as well indulge her.”

Bucky clears his throat. “Right - good plan.” He agrees and returns to the small pink couch and it’s scowling mistress.

Amelia eyes him warily, trying to stop the smile from creeping onto her face. “Are you coming to look now?” She asks, as if Bucky’s been messing with her for days and not a few minutes.

“I’d love to see it,” Bucky says, holding a hand out and finding it snatched up in a flash.

Amelia’s darting down the hallway, Bucky dragged along in her wake. They pass a room with the door ajar, _Emma Margaret_ painted on it in beautiful, purple script. The next room has the same painted script on it, only in pink - _Amelia Sarah_. Their names sound so romantic in full, like they’ve fallen straight out of a Jane Austen novel (not that Bucky’s ever read one).

Amelia pushes the door open and proudly surveys her kingdom, allowing Bucky to peek in behind her. It looks like any six-year-old, pony-obsessed room might. Most of the furniture is in a light-wash wood (with some marker artwork courtesy of tiny, scribbling hands on the headboard). There’s a beanbag in one corner, a dolls house packed up against the wall, and a bookshelf overflowing with picture books. What catches Bucky’s eye most is the mural painted above the bed. There’s a kingdom on one side, a magical forest on the other, and what look to be all the My Little Pony characters either galloping or flying across the scene.

Bucky’s staring must be obvious because Amelia climbs up onto her bed and points to each pony in turn, giving him their full name.

“Do you like the ponies?” Amelia asks once she’s done and Bucky has obediently repeated each name in turn to signal his understanding.

“Yeah, it’s fantastic. Did your dad paint that?”

“Mhm,” Amelia says, though she moves to balance dangerously on the headboard, “but I helped.”

Up the top is Amelia’s name, printed with backwards a’s and an m with one too many curves. Beneath it is Steve’s signature, a white flourish in the blue, fantasy sky.

“We can play ponies, if you’d like,” Amelia states, and Bucky knows he’s got no out on this one.

Bucky nods to break eye contact with the mural. “Sure, yeah. Let’s play ponies.”

—

Steve walks in on them when dinner is ready, Bucky holding Twilight Sparkle and Fluttershy in his hands while Amelia creates the story with her own two characters. His input has been repeatedly shot down, so Bucky just sticks to nodding along and agreeing with whatever he’s told. Bucky doesn’t realise he’s been caught until Steve clears his throat, and Bucky drops the two ponies in surprise.

“I was coming to say dinner’s ready, but you look pretty comfy here. Should I leave you both to it?” Steve asks, smirking, and Bucky carefully turns back to Amelia.

She looks at Steve with narrowed eyes, a queen surveying a peasant. “What’s for dinner?”

“It’s what you get given,” Steve replies smartly, giving Amelia a moment to groan before answering her again: “Nachos, remember?”

That clearly rates highly on Amelia’s food list, and she leaves the ponies where they fall to run out to the kitchen. It must be some miracle that Emma hasn’t woken up, because that kid is _not_ quiet.

“I always get roped in to playing ponies, it’s nice to be let off the hook every once in a while,” Steve is still smirking as he offers Bucky a hand to pull him up. Bucky takes it gratefully, as he’s lost feeling in one of his feet from curling himself up in the tiny bedroom. “Did you like it?”

Bucky makes a noise in response, which earns a laugh from Steve. “It was something.”

“Don’t you have a nephew?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow as they move through the maze-like hallway to come out in the dining room.

“True.” Bucky has extensive experience being forced into games with young children, but it’s different with Liam. He’s more about just doing and correcting Bucky when he plays wrong (whatever that means) - Amelia is evidently the sort to dictate exactly what is happening without any willingness to budge.

“And you said that’s your sister’s son?” Steve’s maintaining conversation as he puts a hand on Amelia’s shoulder to stop her standing up on her chair to reach the food. “Wait, you’ll get yours.”

Bucky takes the chair next to Amelia, opposite Steve and Emma’s highchair. “Yeah, he’s the only little one in our family right now.”

Steve is busy getting Amelia ready, placing a neon-pink plastic bowl in front of her. It’s already got corn chips layered in the bottom, and Steve goes through each of the bowls on the table in order - ground beef, salsa, cheese, guacamole, sour cream - to build Amelia her own meal. She has expensive taste; demanding Steve add more guacamole until nearly half her meal is made up of avocado. “That’s nice, though. Do you have any other siblings?”

“Nah, it’s just the two of us.” Steve waits until Amelia is digging into her meal, ignoring the matching pink plastic fork in favour of using her hands. Steve holds out a bowl to Bucky, placing the bag of corn chips on the table, out of Amelia’s reach. “You’re not gonna make my dinner for me?”

Steve raises an eyebrow, smiling as if Bucky’s an idiot, which - well, he wouldn’t be entirely wrong. “You need me to feed it to you as well?”

Bucky is very tempted to say yes, but instead stands up to make his own meal. “So much for service, Steve,” Bucky complains, though nothing in front of him looks like it would earn a complaint. Everything smells delicious, and almost all of it looks homemade - a far cry from Bucky’s own attempts at nachos, which involved tinned salsa and shredded cheese in the microwave. “Do you have any siblings?”

Steve shakes his head, leaning around Bucky to get the food he wants. “It’s just me. I think I was more than enough for my mom.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to raise an eyebrow, sceptical. “You a little troublemaker, huh?”

Steve has the decency to look sheepish. “You could call it that,” he says, and Bucky thinks he’s being intentionally vague as he sits down to start in on his massive bowl of food. Guess it takes a lot of fuel to have a body like that.

With his own bowl now loaded up, though not to the same degree as Steve, Bucky waits. No elaboration is forthcoming. “Come on, Steve. Spill.”

“It’s nothing,” Steve says around a mouthful of nachos, which is hopelessly endearing.

With a roll of his eyes, Bucky points at Steve with his fork. “That means it’s _definitely_ something.”

“I don’t want to give my daughter ideas,” Steve finally replies, and Amelia’s head snaps up, summoned by something involving her.

She really is a clone of Steve, because when she says, “what?” it’s with a matching mouthful of guacamole and corn chips.

“Amelia, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Steve answers, and Bucky snickers - which earns him a half-hearted glare. “ _Don_ _’t_.”

“What?” Bucky asks, faux-innocent, mouth empty.

Amelia makes a show of swallowing her food, and then repeats - “Dad, what?”

“It’s nothing, baby.” Steve says placatingly. “Grown-up talk.”

Amelia groans, long and drawn-out, clearly having no patience for grown-up anything.

Bucky looks up at Steve through his eyelashes, smirking as he digs through his bowl. Steve kicks him under the table. “You _are_ trouble,” Bucky gasps, scandalised, as he kicks Steve back. It all feels strangely close to the game of footsies you’d play in high school with the girl you had a crush on, but that’s not worth focusing on.

“Dad, I’m finished.” Amelia holds her bowl out, an offering, scraped completely clean of the three avocados worth of guacamole she’d eaten. “Can I go watch TV?”

There’s a moment where Steve looks thoughtful, and Bucky has to wonder whether Amelia is trying to take advantage of their house guest. Steve seems like the sort of Dad who’s strict on stuff like watching TV, and Amelia has whipped out the sweetest smile Bucky’s ever seen to go with her question.

Eventually, Steve acquiesces with a nod. Amelia is gone in a flash and the television audio blares to life in the living room. “Turn it down!” Steve calls, and Bucky hears the volume drop the barest touch. “ _Amelia_!” It takes Steve standing up and going to stand in the doorway for the volume to reach a more suitable level, and Steve returns to his chair with a heavy sigh. “Kids,” he says and shakes his head, returning to his dinner.

“Does she take after you?” Bucky asks, his own meal finished.

Steve snorts. “Unfortunately.”

“C’mon, you can’t have been that bad.”

“I got suspended,” Steve says, with a sympathetic cringe - maybe for his poor mother, now that he was in her shoes, “a lot.”

That’s - unexpected. “No shit,” Bucky speaks without thinking, then glances over his shoulder - but Amelia hasn’t appeared out of thin air, so he’s all good. “What did you do?”

There’s a stretch of time where Steve doesn’t say anything. Bucky isn’t sure why. Maybe he’s worried Bucky will judge him - or that Amelia will pop up as soon as he confesses. Bucky actually can’t imagine _anything_ Steve could do getting him suspended because he seems like… a dad. Caring but firm, if not over-protective. Although, people are different in school - Bucky only went for the social aspect in his senior year, so his grades weren’t great (much to Winnie’s dismay), but now he’d gladly research things he was curious about. School was like a world within the real world, with an entirely different set of rules and expectations to how society _actually_ functioned.

“I got in a lot of fights.” Steve says quickly, finishing by shoving another forkful of food into his mouth so he doesn’t have to clarify anything just yet.

Bucky isn’t even remotely surprised. Now that Steve’s said it, it makes complete sense. “That all?” Bucky says with a chuckle, absently picking up a corn chip. “I thought you’d done something horrible.”

“Like what, exactly?”

Bucky shrugs, popping the corn chip in his mouth and making a point of answering with his mouth full. God, his Ma would _kill_ him. “Killed someone or something.”

“ _Jesus_ , Bucky, where did you go to school?”

“Fort Hamilton.” Normally Bucky doesn’t elaborate much more than that, seeing as his family never moved out of Bay Ridge, but he doesn’t actually know where Steve is from. “In Brooklyn.”

Steve looks - surprised. “I know where that is,” he answers slowly, as if doubting Bucky for some reason. “I went to Brooklyn Arts.”

It’s Bucky’s turn now to wear a matching surprised look. “No way.”

“Yeah,” Steve’s smiling faintly. “So, you lived in Brooklyn?”

“Bay Ridge.”

“East Flatbush. Before she died, my Ma was a nurse at Kings County, so we lived right near there.” Steve has a look of fond nostalgia on his face, like remembering a better time. Bucky feels sorry for him - so many people around him had died. Bucky is lucky enough that he can make the trek back home to see his mother whenever he wants. It's hard to remember that, sometimes, people don’t have the same luxuries as him. And to think, Amelia and Emma would never -

Bucky forces a smile to his face instead. No use following that line of thought. “How long have you lived up here?”

While he’s doing the math in his head, Steve squints one eye. It’s ridiculously cute. Bucky eats another chip. “Almost eight years. It’s a nice area, but… I do miss home, sometimes.”

“You ever go down, just for a visit?” Bucky couldn’t imagine _not_ being able to visit home when he needed it. His parents had never moved since he’d been in elementary school, and so Bucky’s childhood bedroom had transitioned into his adulthood one. Becca had never moved far away either, so it was like everything had stayed the same. Bucky got nostalgic for the place often, for his mother’s carefully curated gardens and home cooking, the way his father seemed rooted in place on the armchair with the newspaper, the same armchair that had indents to welcome every part of his body.

Steve shakes his head slowly, and his excited smile gives way for another of his tired, sad ones. “I don’t have anyone down there anymore.”

Bucky nudges Steve’s foot under the table again, gently now. “That’s stupid. My parents’d have you any time. Ma’s always begging Becca to let her take care of Liam. You ever get the urge to go back home, I’ll get you their address.”

“You’re real sweet, Buck,” Steve shifts his foot so he can press down on Bucky’s. Knowing the size of the man’s calves (of course he's looked, Bucky’s only human), he’d be able to crush Bucky underfoot. “You’re going down over Christmas, aren’t you?”

The weather outside was a reminder that that time was drawing ever closer. “Yeah. I’ll be gone ‘til end of February, probably.”

Bucky watches as Steve’s brow tugs down in the middle, just a bit, the beginnings of a wrinkle forming there. He must make that face a lot. It’s definitely a parent look, this half-frown. “Why so long?”

“Dad’s a handyman around town. Plumbing, building, whatever. But he’s getting on a bit, and the cold plays havoc on his joints. I like to go home over winter to give him a hand with things.” It wouldn’t be long before retirement, Bucky felt. His mother had retired years ago from her job, working as an education assistant at a local elementary school. _“Kids these days, too much time on those violent games,”_ she’d said, shaking her head, but Bucky suspected that was just an excuse. She’d always wanted to get kids out of him and Becca, and her retirement coincided nicely with Rebecca’s pregnancy. Grandma life suited Winifred Barnes like nothing else.

Steve taps Bucky’s foot again. “Like I said, real sweet.”

Bucky snorts a laugh. “Not quite. I hate the cold. At least the weather back home is nicer than here. The snow’s horrible. So, it’s partially selfishness.”

“You’re allowed to be selfish sometimes,” Steve answers, but the last of his words are cut off by a cry from Emma’s room. “It’s probably her dinner time, too. Amelia can help you get dessert ready, if you want.”

The foot on top of his disappears and Steve is gone, and Bucky overhears him telling Amelia to do something. Bucky stands up and looks at the table, slowly starting to tidy up. Amelia appears in front of him a few minutes after her father walked through, and she dips her finger into the sour cream. “Dad says you have cake.”

“That I do.” Bucky is busy balancing the plates and bowls on his arms, taking them to the counter to put into containers. “But first we gotta tidy up. Do you have any containers for this?”

Amelia looks hesitant, but the lure of cake must win out over her desire to do nothing. She opens up one cupboard and tugs out a container, setting off an avalanche of mismatched Tupperwares onto the floor. “How big?” She holds up the lidless bowl she’d grabbed to Bucky, then starts picking through all the others littering the ground.

“Uh - a couple of big ones, a couple of small ones.” It’s a vague instruction and Bucky gets exactly what he asks for: some massive containers suitable for an entire family meal, and some that look like they’re designed for spices. Eventually, everything winds up contained, though not in the most elegant fashion. Amelia is wiping down the table with more enthusiasm than skill, and Bucky has to dig the broom out from behind the fridge to clean up the floor after she’s swept every crumb in existence onto it.

By the time Steve comes downstairs with a grumbly Emma in his arms, the pair of them are just finishing up the tidying. “Bucky,” Steve says, placing Emma into the highchair and strapping her in. “You didn’t have to clean up.”

“You cooked; I clean. That’s fair, right?”

“You made dessert,” Steve counters, pulling the cake out of the fridge along with a container of baby food.

Bucky glances at the cake placed on the counter, grocery store barcode on top of the packaging. “Sure did,” Bucky says sarcastically.

“Is it someone’s birthday?” Amelia asks, drawing herself up on tiptoes so she can look at the cake. It doesn’t have any writing on it, but maybe sprinkles are associated with birthdays in the minds of children.

Steve looks up from the jar of mush he’s offering Emma, who is sleepily waving her arms instead of opening her mouth. “None of us.” He glances meaningfully at Bucky.

“My birthday is in March. This is just - cake. Just because.”

Amelia’s jaw drops, and she turns on Steve. “You said we’re only allowed cake for special occasions!”

“This is a special occasion, sweetie. Bucky’s come over for dinner.” Steve’s using his careful dad skills to navigate the flailing arms to shove a spoonful of orange food into Emma’s mouth.

Bucky watches Amelia’s face as a thought clicks into place, her eyes slowly lighting. “So, if Bucky comes over for dinner, we can have cake?” She asks carefully, turning to look at her father.

“ _Sometimes_ we will have cake, yes.”

“Did working in contracts make you good at negotiating with kids, or was it the other way around?” Bucky asks, now pulling a knife out of the block to slice the cake up for serving.

Steve laughs. “Other way around. But it’s an applicable skill in both areas.”

Bucky joins him in laughing, and Amelia just looks very confused about the whole thing. “Do you wanna get out some plates and forks?” He asks, after slicing half the cake up so he can leave the remnants behind for Steve (or Amelia, most likely) to enjoy later. Bucky can see Amelia ready to argue - never ask a kid a question, that’s what Becca had told him - but then he adds: “Once you get them, you can have cake,” and that changes everything.

The plates are presented to Bucky in record time, forks clattered onto the table, and once one slice is served Amelia is running off with it into the lounge room. Bucky looks over at Steve, wonderingly, and Steve looks poised to say something but just gives up. He’s got enough to do, what with how Emma’s gotten more food on her body than in her mouth.

Bucky places a plate in front of Steve anyway before serving up his own and joining him at the table.

“Thank you,” Steve says between using his left hand to cut up his cake and the right to drag dribbled baby food back into Emma’s mouth. “Sure you don’t want kids?” Steve asks as Emma tosses her head away, whining loudly about Steve’s attempts to feed her.

“You can keep ‘em,” Bucky replies, enjoying the cake and show he’s being treated to.

In the end, Emma decides she’s hungry enough to indulge her father and lets Steve feed her. He manages, at the same time, to feed himself forkfuls of cake with his non-dominant hand. It’s rather impressive, actually - Bucky comments on it, and Steve just waves it off as one of many ‘dad skills’ he possesses.

The onesie Emma’s wearing is beyond saving once dinner is over, the light grey material now an unnaturally bright orange. Bucky watches as Steve carefully negotiates his arms around the baby, now full enough to be dropping off to sleep rather than flailing about, mindful of coating himself in orange goop.

Bucky has an urge to stay, to offer to help Steve with bathing Emma, but that’s too far. Steve may not consider him an active threat to the children now, but they’re not exactly friends. “I should let you go,” Bucky says, taking Steve’s plate as he tries to hold Emma in the least messy way possible. It’s a lost cause, Bucky thinks, but he doesn’t say it aloud - he just puts the plates in the sink, rinsing them off.

“Yeah,” Steve answers with a sad kind of smile, Emma’s head drooping back against his chest and mouth open. “Thank you for coming over. And for everything you did with Amelia.” He’s not looking at Bucky, instead stroking his free hand over Emma’s soft baby hairs. Bucky isn’t sure whether he’s avoiding eye contact on purpose, or he just can’t help staring at Emma - either could be true, given what Bucky knows of Steve so far.

Bucky shrugs one shoulder. “It’s like I said. I’m happy to come help, any time.” He repackages the cake and puts it into Steve’s fridge. What’s Bucky going to do with cake? Well - eat it, obviously. But should he eat an entire half a cake to himself? Probably not.

The look Steve gives him is grateful, but Bucky knows that Steve isn’t the sort of guy to just _ask_ for help. Bucky isn’t sure whether it’s a masculinity thing, or ties into this weird belief Steve’s hinted at that he thinks he should be able to single-handedly raise two children on his own. Maybe it’s a bit of both. Bucky wants to force his help upon the other man, but that wouldn’t do much good either. Steve’s a wild animal protecting his young, and Bucky’s gotten close enough to feed him. He’s not going to undo all that hard work because he can see Steve desperately needs someone to take over and let him get some damn sleep.

Steve leads Bucky quietly back to the door. The television is still running in the living room, but Amelia is asleep, half-eaten cake on the ground in front of her. Steve shakes his head - _please god don_ _’t wake her up_ \- and they try to make as little noise as possible as they open the front door. Bucky, instead of saying goodbye, just waves and smiles before tip-toeing downstairs. He hears the door latch very gently behind him, and then it’s over.

He’s back outside his own home, which feels miserably empty compared to Steve’s. It’s not like Bucky is alone, though - Sarge has made himself quite at home on Bucky’s bed, and he’s allowed to get away with it, just this once.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve Rogers finally gets what's coming to him aka. a hug and a nap.

The more they hang out, the better Bucky gets at reading Amelia’s various noises. He can identify which ones are happy and sad, which ones are because she hasn’t gotten her way and which ones are part of her attempting to get her way. Normally, when she’s playing outside, Bucky can turn his music up and ignore the (typically excited) squeals of her playing in the backyard or trying to attract Sarge’s attention.

Bucky’s busy fixing together the flat pack kitchen cabinet set he got sent, trying to get the whole thing put together before he goes back home next week so there’s one less job upon his return. This, at least, is easy enough to do regardless of the weather. Sure, Bucky would rather it not be freezing cold inside the poorly insulated house (another job on the list), but he’d rather have a functioning kitchen.

Amelia is outside yelling. Not entirely unusual - it’s a weekday afternoon, it’s not raining, she’s probably got heaps of energy to let out. Steve hasn’t been around as much as usual, which Bucky attributes to the late night crying he’s hearing more and more of lately. He withdraws himself from a cabinet, careful not to bump his head, and pulls apart the blinds to see what Amelia’s yelling at.

Sarge has his big paws up on the fence and is whining, but Amelia’s not looking at him: she’s staring at the window, and her yelling isn’t its usual, nonsensical loud children noise - it’s his name. Repeatedly.

Bucky’s heart sinks. He leaves behind what he’s doing, picks up his phone, and runs outside.

There are tears streaming down her little face, and even Sarge is anxiously whining in an attempt to make it better.

“Bucky!” Amelia wails, and Bucky gently touches her hands where they rest on top of the fence, hoping to alleviate some of her distress.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, and Amelia sniffles, rubbing her nose with her sleeve. Steve would scold her for that.

Amelia attempts to speak, hiccups, and has to start again. “Something’s wrong in the house and you need to come and fix it.” She looks overly distressed, so Bucky figures it isn’t a clogged toilet or a busted light bulb. Plus, Steve isn’t incapable of basic household tasks, surely.

“Yeah, of course. Where’s Dad?” If Steve’s not home then the problem is why is Amelia on her own? Steve would never willingly leave her without supervision. She’s six. Also, Steve probably wouldn’t leave her anywhere alone until she was thirty-five and married, but that’s beside the point.

That starts Amelia crying again, and Bucky squeezes her hands. He’s not good at sympathy at the best of times, and he’s never been good at consoling a hysterical child. Liam normally gets hand-balled to his mother or Winnie to fix the problem. “He’s sad, too. He can’t fix it I don’t think.” She sniffles at the end of almost every word, pulling one hand free of Bucky’s to wipe her nose again.

“Alright, I’ll be over in a minute. I’ll just grab some tools. Can you open the front door?”

Amelia doesn’t say anything; she just nods and disappears down behind the fence. Bucky can hear the backdoor slam in her wake while he quickly ducks inside the grab his toolkit. He throws some of the items he’s been using into it, just in case they’re needed, and then pockets his wallet and phone. It’s hard to predict exactly what he’ll need without first knowing the situation, but Steve’s in luck. Bucky’s got nearly everything a person would need to fix a problem in their house, which likely cannot be said about a lot of neighbours. Once he’s got everything, he locks his front door and looks over to find Amelia hovering anxiously on her stoop.

She doesn’t say anything as she leads Bucky inside, just continues to cry softly. Bucky is taken through to the kitchen where the problem is immediately clear: the pipe under the sink has burst and is leaking water all over the floor. Bucky’s too occupied with that to notice at first, but Steve is in the room too, huddled over in the corner staring into the middle-distance as the water inches closer to him. That’s more concerning than the water problem, but Steve doesn’t appear to be visibly injured so Bucky goes straight to the pressing issue: getting the water turned off.

Bucky operates under the assumption that Steve’s house is exactly like his, and that the shutoff valve is located in the basement. Unlike Bucky’s place, the basement at Steve’s is full of boxes of stuff that Bucky pushes aside to find the switch he needs. Bucky turns the valve until it can’t go any further, cutting off supply to the entire house. Though he hadn’t noticed, Amelia is hovering at the top of the stairs, watching him, cheeks shiny with tears.

“Amelia, I need you to do a job for me, okay? To help.” Bucky, at least, can do this part: he’s fixed busted pipes before, and he’s certainly delegated tasks, though not often to a child. Amelia nods her head, watching him quietly - and her silence is unnerving. “I need you to go and get me all your spare towels out of the cupboard. Do you know where Dad keeps them?” Amelia nods again, still standing on the top step. “Go get the towels and bring them to the kitchen for me.” She blinks a few times before disappearing, and Bucky leaves the basement door open as he goes back into the kitchen.

The water is no longer spreading on the floor from an active leak, but settling. They’ll need to get it all soaked up and probably air the room for a few days to prevent a mould situation similar to the one Bucky dealt with.

Steve is still where Bucky left him, and Bucky squats down in front of him. It’s incredibly unnerving to be moving around someone - especially someone so constantly vigilant - and have them barely twitch.

“Hey,” Bucky begins gently, putting a hand on Steve’s hand, laying limp on the floor. “Steve.” He tries to be firmer with his next words, squeezing Steve’s hand. Bucky’s never seen him look quite so drained, skin pale and the dark bags even worse. “ _Steve_.”

Finally, the other man blinks and focuses on Bucky.

“Are you hurt?” Bucky asks, still holding onto Steve’s hand, trying to push some warmth into it.

He shakes his head, moving in slow motion.

“I got them.” Amelia - or, rather, a giant bundle of towels - announces. She dumps the pile on the floor and they spill out of their neatly folded state. There are large beach towels and smaller ones that would be used to dry Emma after a bath, as well as everything in between. For a family of three, they have a _lot_ of towels. That’s probably a good thing in a situation like this.

“Okay, good. Can you put them all over the water for me?” Bucky instructs, and Amelia starts to pick them up one at a time and lay them over the large puddle on the floor.

While she works, Bucky turns back to Steve. “Where’s Emma?”

A sudden look of fear crosses Steve’s eyes, and he drags himself upright. Bucky follows him as the other man stumbles his way to Emma’s room, pushing the door open and flicking the light on. Bucky’s behind Steve so he can’t see anything yet, and there’s a horrible moment where he can’t hear anything.

Then Emma starts to cry, and Steve sags against the wall. Bucky’s still not sure what’s happened, but it’s clear that dealing with a crying baby is beyond Steve’s capacity right now. He crosses the room instead and picks Emma up. She doesn’t smell like she needs a change, so Bucky is going to assume the rudely bright awakening is what’s caused her to start crying.

Bucky holds her against his body, gently rocking her in an attempt to soothe her back to sleep.

“Bucky, no, it’s alright - I can do that.” Steve is protesting weakly, pushing himself away from the wall, and he looks like - well, shit, if Bucky’s being honest. Beyond shit, in fact. Standing under the ceiling light is doing him no favours, either, and Bucky never thought he’d find a bad angle for someone like Steve.

Amelia’s appeared again in the doorway, and her showing up unannounced is even more unnerving than when she’d just start blabbering without Bucky knowing she was present. “I put the towels on the floor.” Amelia’s voice is still small and timid, and Steve is momentarily distracted by her.

“Good job,” Bucky says, mustering up a smile as Emma starts to settle a little. “I need you to take Dad to bed. I think he needs a nap.”

“Bucky, no - I’m _fine_.”

“Steve,” Bucky aims for gentle, but he’s not really the comfort sort. “Go get some rest. I’ll take care of everything.”

Steve’s clearly never done what he’s told in his life, because he stubbornly shakes his head. “Bucky, I can’t get you to do this.”

“Do you want me to get Sharon to pick up the girls?” Despite all the time they’ve spent getting to know each other - despite the fact that Bucky, at least, now considers them friends - maybe Steve would feel better knowing who was looking after his kids. Not that Bucky was going to take them anywhere - he planned on putting Emma back down and fixing his sink, that was all.

The suggestion Bucky had expected Steve to look happier about, makes him look even more stressed. “No, Bucky - I don’t want her to think…,” he trails off and sighs, and Bucky can see him about to cry, too. Jesus, he never signed up to this in the mortgage. Bucky lays Emma back down, ignoring how she makes some token protests about being away from a warm body. With both arms free, he’s able to wrap his arms around Steve. Bucky’s almost prepared to be pushed back and told not to, but Steve leans into him, placing his face against Bucky’s neck. He can feel the warm, damp tears on his skin. “I can do this,” Steve tells the juncture of Bucky’s neck and shoulder, clearly hoping the words will fortify him. “I can.”

“Hey, I know you can,” Bucky soothes, much the same way he did with Emma, running his hands up and down Steve’s back. “Sometimes we all need a break.”

Steve laughs bitterly into Bucky’s shirt. “I don’t have time for a break.”

“Yeah you do. It’s right now.” Bucky gives Steve a squeeze, awkwardly unsure of how and when to end a hug, especially this kind. So long as Steve needs it, Bucky’s happy to hold him, but he doesn’t want to overstep boundaries he doesn’t know about. Steve’s clinging to him just as tightly, so Bucky figures they’re fine. “Have a rest. I’ll fix up your pipes, we can order pizza. It’ll be fine.”

With a parting sniffle, Steve lifts his head and disentangles himself from Bucky. Amelia is hovering anxiously at the door, looking as uncertain as Bucky feels.

“Bed,” Bucky instructs, to both of them.

“Wake me up if she needs anything,” Steve says, and maybe he thinks he’s being firm, but he sounds desperate.

Bucky nods, even though he knows he won’t wake Steve up if he manages to get to sleep.

Steve slowly wraps an arm over Amelia’s shoulders, and she grips his hand in hers, guiding them both to Steve’s bedroom. Bucky’s never been in there (unfortunately), and following them would be a step too far. Instead, Bucky satisfies himself by watching them both go inside and shut the door behind them. He glances back at Emma, who is back to sleeping soundly, and he debates flicking the light off before leaving it. He doesn’t want to disrupt her now and risk Steve getting up and insisting he's fine, so he leaves things the way they are.

At least with the baby asleep and Steve (hopefully) on his way to doing the same, Bucky can get to work. He moves around the house and turns all the taps on to release the pressure. He flushes the toilet, too, holding his breath in hope that the sound won’t disrupt anyone.

It doesn’t.

Then Bucky digs through their laundry to grab out a mop, bucket, and laundry basket. All those towels will likely be soaked by now - thanks to Amelia doing a surprisingly good job, for a child. She’s strategically set them out so there’s minimal overlap, all the wet spaces of the floor covered up. A few towels remain piled up by the wall, and Bucky tries to sort out a couple of dry, adult-sized ones in case Steve needs a shower later. The leftovers can be used to clean up the rest of the floor, once Bucky dumps the soaked ones into the basket. He empties out the cupboard beneath the sink, drying off the wet cleaning products with some dry tea-towels and placing them on the countertop. Bucky has to throw out a few products that got ruined in the deluge, but most of it can be saved.

The plywood shelf in the cupboard may not be so lucky - it’s drenched through and still dripping, and Bucky isn’t sure he can save it. Still, now’s not the time for that. He just needs to repair the pipe so the water can be turned back on and the family can at least function. Bucky can always replace the shelf later if it ends up mouldy, as he expects.

Bucky opens up surrounding cupboards to air them out and turns on the heating, hoping to dry the room up quicker as he starts mopping. It’s not a glamorous job, not at all, but at least this is something Bucky’s done a thousand times before. He may not have gone to college, but he’d picked up plenty of plumbing skills working with his father, and that’s helped him more than any degree could have.

With the floor as dry as possible and the heat cranked, Bucky checks up on Emma. She’s got her arms thrown up above her head, but is sleeping soundly. All he needs to do is go next door and grab some of the leftover pipes from the repair job he’d done in his own kitchen and come back. Knowing Bucky’s luck, Emma will start to cry as soon as he’s left the building. It’s like kids have a ‘ _worst timing_ ’ sense, and they engage it whenever possible. He just has to hope he can make it there and back without alerting her.

Before leaving, Bucky creeps down the hall to listen outside Steve’s door, but there’s no sounds coming from the room. Hopefully they’re both asleep, too - and hopefully Steve won’t get mad at Bucky for leaving his front door unlocked for the minute it takes him to go home and get supplies.

Through some miracle, Bucky is back in the Roger’s household in under five minutes _and_ there’s no crying (from anyone, adults included). He dumps the box full of PVC pipe onto the floor by the kitchen sink and kneels on one of the dry towels to investigate further. By the looks of it, no one’s done maintenance on the pipes since they were put in. Bucky pulls the mop bucket over and sets it at his side, carefully undoing the connections to remove the damaged pipe. The damaged part is curved and Bucky empties the lingering water from it into the bucket at his side, before digging through his leftover pieces to find one of the matching size. One end is a bit too long for Steve’s set-up, and Bucky uses a hacksaw to cut it to size, gently wiping away the dust. Bucky carefully slides the new piece into place and tightens the fittings, checking that it all aligns properly.

Before he goes turning the water back on and (potentially) soaking the floor again, Bucky grabs some bottled water from the fridge. He places the mop bucket where any leaks will spurt from and then pours the entire bottle down the drain. Bucky’s holding his breath as he watches the entire thing drain away cleanly, not a single drop of water out of place.

Well. That was easier than most home repair jobs ever went. The stars certainly must be aligned.

On his way to the basement to turn the water back on, Bucky pokes his head into Emma’s room once more. She’s awake but not crying, entranced by the mobile above her head. Bucky presses the button to turn it on and it starts to slowly swivel, playing a lullaby. Emma is even more fascinated when it moves, and Bucky considers that a win. Maybe he should go buy a lottery ticket or something.

Once the water is back on, and Bucky’s tested every faucet, he sets a load of laundry going with the dirty, soaked towels. There’s nothing like a good burst pipe to get your floor cleaned, and the towels show that Steve’s floor may have really needed it. Not that Bucky is here to judge. He can keep a house clean, sure, but that’s without children existing within it. If he had even one child, it would no doubt be an entirely different story.

Bucky empties the mop bucket and fills it with some disinfectant he found under the sink, giving the floor a proper clean with hot water this time. Bucky’s starting to sweat pretty bad in the room, what with the heat still going, but they need to make sure they dry everything out as quickly as they can, and that’s the best way to do it.

Bucky’s soon done all he can: the kitchen is damp but drying, and it smells pleasantly of lemon; the taps are all working; and the washing machine is running in the laundry.

He hovers in the kitchen for a while before deciding to go check on Emma again. The mobile has stopped spinning, and she’s fidgeting a little in bed, so Bucky carefully lifts her up. The mat he saw on his first visit to the house is still out in the living room, so that might be a nice way for her to spend some of her waking, non-crying time. Plus, if Emma starts to cry in the living room it’s less likely that Steve will hear it and come charging out.

It’s dark in the house now that the sun has set, and Bucky switches on lights as he carries Emma out into the living room. He places her on the mat and finds a switch to make more things move and flash and sing. Emma entertains herself rolling from side to side to watch them all.

“You’re still here?” Comes the sleepy question from the hallway, and Bucky nearly jumps. When he turns around Steve is there, still wearing the clothes he had on earlier - it can’t have been comfortable sleeping with a button-down and slacks, but sleeping was obviously his priority. He looks adorably rumpled, and at least somewhat better rested than usual.

Bucky glanced at his watch. It was pretty late. “The laundry should be done soon. I’ll move it into the dryer and get out of your hair.”

Steve frowns, the expression softened with lingering sleep, as he drops down heavily onto the couch beside Bucky. “You did laundry?”

“Your towels were all soaked,” Bucky offers, as explanation. It’s not like it was a big deal. When he works with his father, that’s one of his sticking points as a business: that whole, ‘ _we’re all friends here_ ’ vibe. This wouldn’t be the first place Bucky’s set laundry going, or done some extra mopping. He likes to think that such decency shouldn’t come as a surprise, but clearly it does.

Steve scrubs at his face with his hands, digging in over his eyes. “I can’t do anything to thank you.”

“I didn’t do this for thanks.” Bucky did it because he cared - which was surprising, but not unwelcome. Through their small interactions, Bucky has come to consider Steve a friend. A friend who was clearly in need of a few good nights of sleep, which Bucky couldn’t magically give him, as much as he wanted to. “Pizza, though?”

“That would be wonderful,” Steve is still sleepy, Bucky can hear it persisting in his voice. The blonde tugs a blanket off the back of the couch and draws it around his shoulders, letting his head fall back.

—

They get pizza. Bucky picks for the adults, Steve orders a ham and cheese for Amelia. It arrives quickly enough, and they eat with a movie on and Emma babbling to her toys on the floor. Amelia, despite napping with her father earlier, is off to bed soon after eating. Steve puts on some action movie on the TV, quiet enough that it’s basically background music.

Emma seems to be giving Steve a break, and when she starts to cry for a feed she gladly takes the bottle she’s offered without complaint. They sit on the couch together, not talking - Bucky’s reading the subtitles to follow the shitty movie, glancing over at Emma every few seconds because that’s more subtle than looking at Steve like he wants to do.

When Emma’s done feeding, Steve goes off to change her and put her to bed. Bucky gets up and grabs the towels out of the dryer, which he begins to fold in the living room in front of the TV. Despite the quality of the movie, he’s somewhat invested in the outcome of the heist they’re planning.

“Bucky,” Steve says softly when he comes back, Emma having gone down quickly. “Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Bucky asks, playing dumb as he places another folded towel down on the lounge at his side.

“All of this,” Steve waves his hand at the towels, at the kitchen. “I can do it myself.” Steve makes a move to grab the towel from Bucky’s hands, and Bucky pulls back away from him.

“Just because you can do it yourself, doesn’t mean I have to leave you to.” Bucky might not be able to magically give Steve back the many hours of sleep he’s missing, but he can sure as hell make things slightly easier on the other man. It’s not even that he has any ulterior motives - sure, Steve is very attractive, and were he not clearly struggling as a newly-single parent of two children, maybe that would be different. Bucky just genuinely likes to be useful.

Steve looks prepared to argue, then he gives up and picks up a different towel to fold. They work in somewhat companionable silence for a while, the movie softly punctuating the quiet with muted explosions and gunfire, when Steve says, “I can’t believe you’re single.”

It’s an odd statement. Bucky doesn’t know what to make of it - he’s almost wondering whether it’s a come on from Steve, though now seems like a weird time for it. He opts for humour, which is a great way to handle any situation, in Bucky’s opinion. “What, because my stubbornness is so attractive?”

When Steve laughs, tired as it is, Bucky counts that as a win. “Because you’re so nice. You’re always trying to help. A lot of people would kill for that in a partner.” Steve’s looking at the towel in his hands, running a finger over one of the embroidered butterflies on it. Like Amelia’s bedroom door, this is personalised with her name on it, beside a menagerie of cute critters. Bucky’s already folded up another, newer one with Emma’s name on it. It’s big enough for a child (or a small adult), and Bucky’s sincerely hoping the first time it got used was not to mop up a spill.

The statement, however, clarifies nothing for Bucky as far as Steve’s intentions go. “This is only a service I offer my neighbours, unfortunately.”

Steve smiles at the new towel in his hands - a faded, Dora the Explorer, toddler-sized one - and then shakes his head. “Lucky me, then.”

“Lucky indeed.”

—

Bucky leaves Steve only after he’s promised to call if he needs anything.

Naturally, Steve does not call.

—

The kitchen cabinets have gone in as planned, and Bucky’s managed to get the room in a nearly finished state. He still wants to redo the flooring (the black and white check linoleum is so cliché it pains him) and give the walls a fresh coat of paint (especially since you can see where he patched the wall back up again after airing out the mould), but it’s otherwise done. Which means his plans for next spring are… the entire rest of the house.

Not too bad at all.

Going away over winter feels like a good choice, because Bucky could use the extra money that comes with working as an all-hours call-out for his dad, but he’s still going to miss it. Well, he’s not going to miss the house, really. Houses are just workplaces for Bucky, and he hasn’t yet formed an attachment to one the way he has with his parent’s house. It’s probably because none of them have had anything for him, other than a form of income. Something about home is where the heart is springs to mind, but Bucky doesn’t dwell on that.

He’ll miss Steve and Amelia - and little Emma, too, even though their interactions have been short at best. Bucky’s held her only a handful of times, and half of those times she’s wound up crying at him about it.

The forecast is that it’s going to snow in a few days, more likely than not, so Bucky’s packing up and getting out of town before that happens. It doesn’t mean he’s going to avoid the weather entirely, because New York City has its days, but it’ll be better than sticking around. Bucky is already grumpy about the cold. He’s grumpy about a lot of things in this situation, which really isn’t helpful.

It’s weird and stupid to be waiting for a good time to say goodbye, because it doesn’t even _really_ matter, but Bucky’s still doing it.

The opportune moment comes, though Bucky’s not sure that’s what it is until it’s already happening.

Bucky’s just tidying things up, getting everything packed for the drive home, when he hears the tell-tale sounds of Amelia doing something fun. Sarge, like his owner, is a bit of a sook when it comes to the cold and is thus hiding indoors, so he’s not the cause of Amelia’s happiness. Not that her joy is linked exclusively to getting licked, but Bucky has seen some pretty solid evidence proving the relationship between the two events.

Being the nosey neighbour that he is, Bucky wanders over to the kitchen window and glances towards the fence. There’s no Amelia over the fence, and there hasn’t been for a week since she realised Sarge preferred the indoors now. There’s actually nothing visible, which makes Bucky think he’ll soon have a ball sailing into his yard, but then Amelia flies up into the air and promptly disappears again.

Bucky stares out the window. He can hear her shrieking with laughter, but he’s probably just imagining things. Bucky’s sure Steve didn’t own a trampoline the last time he checked, but he hasn’t spent much time in their backyard yet, so he could be wrong.

Then she appears again. A six-year-old girl, flying up into the air, squealing, and then disappearing.

Sarge ambles up to him from the bed he’s made on Bucky’s bedroom floor, the noise also attracting his attention.

“Should we go see what they’re up to?” Bucky phrases it like he’s asking his dog for permission - or, more accurately, for an excuse to go out and investigate.

Sarge looks indifferent, so Bucky takes that as a yes and braves the cold. It’s one of the first days that week without rain, and so Amelia must be making the most of it. She flies up again before Bucky and Sarge arrive at the fence, Bucky poking his head over to look, Sarge putting his beefy paws on the structure.

It’s not _really_ a surprise, when Bucky sees Steve standing there, the reason his daughter is flying up into the air. It’s still a little bit shocking, to consider the man can throw a good forty-to-fifty-pound child that high without looking remotely strained. He hasn’t even cracked a sweat, and that’s not because of the temperature, Bucky’s sure.

Bucky is able to watch one more time as Steve squats down and stands up, launching Amelia into the air, and then catches her again with bent knees.

“Don’t people normally do this with babies?” Bucky asks, and Steve and Amelia both turn twin looks of surprise on him.

Steve puts Amelia down and runs a hand through his hair as his daughter sprints to the fence. She’s got her plastic outdoor chair set up in place and is dangling a hand over in seconds.

“I like to do things the hard way,” Steve answers after a moment, coming to lean against the fence. He’s got the casual lean down to an art, even if Bucky knows nothing about Steve comes anywhere close to casual.

“That so?” Bucky’s aware that his words come out with an extra implication, so he clears his throat and hopes Steve hasn’t picked up on it.

It’s hard to tell whether Steve has or has not caught the flirtatious tone to Bucky’s question, because he’s just smiling, same as always. Bucky had always thought he was charming, but maybe Steve is immune to him. Or, as Bucky has so often reminded himself, maybe now is simply _not the time_.

Since Steve doesn’t have anything to say, Bucky is able to change the subject. “I was just getting ready to leave.” It comes out abrupt, and that wasn’t what Bucky was going for. “I thought I’d pop by. Wish you both an early Christmas. That sort of thing.”

Amelia’s not listening to him at all, instead focused on patting Sarge’s head as he convinces his cold dog body to stretch up for her. He whines every time her hand withdraws, and she starts to treat it like a game: offering a moment of pats, then snatching her hand back and grinning when Sarge complains.

“When do you head out?” Steve asks, and Bucky might be kidding himself but he likes to think Steve looks forlorn. That’s how Bucky’s feeling, and it would be nice to know he’s not the only one.

Bucky shrugs, because planning ahead is not his strongest suit - outside of work, that is. “Tomorrow, some time. Holiday traffic hasn’t fully kicked in yet, so we should be fine.” Roads were a nightmare to navigate as soon as schools went on winter break. It was like that was the go signal to thousands of families that they all had to start driving immediately. Bucky had been caught out in that sort of traffic enough before to know he should avoid it at all costs.

Steve smiles again, politely. Bucky’s glad they’re at the point now where Steve smiles. It looks so good on him, even if Bucky isn’t privileged enough for one of his patented ‘ _my children are the greatest things on Earth_ ’ grins (yet). “Be careful on the roads, Buck.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Bucky says, secretly warmed that Steve would want him to be careful, like maybe Steve wants him to come back alright. “If I got hurt on the way, I’d never be forgiven for ruining Christmas.” He adds a laugh when Steve looks somewhat perplexed by the statement, clearly having forgotten just how terrifying Winifred could be when it came to family holidays. Bucky has told Steve plenty of stories, but hearing about the woman and meeting her are leagues apart.

“Do you want us to keep an eye on anything while you’re away?” Steve asks after a moment of watching Amelia make Sarge’s life a living hell. He’s wagging his tail rapidly in an attempt to make himself taller, and thus in a better position to receive the pats he desires. Amelia is a cruel mistress.

Bucky glances back at the house. He hasn’t worked on the outside yet, so it’s not much to look at. “It should be fine. I’m taking all my tools with me anyway, so if someone breaks in there’s nothing much for them. You’ve got my number, but don’t ruin your holidays keeping an eye on that mess.”

Steve snorts a laugh, because mess is an understatement, but Bucky is minding his language around Amelia. He’s being good. “We’ll make sure nothing happens. You might wind up with a few new balls by the time you come back, though.”

“I’m sure someone will be happy about that,” Bucky shoots a pointed glance at Sarge.

Normally, there’s plenty for them to talk about. After Bucky had worked out the topics that were strictly out of bounds for Steve, they’d been able to chat for ages about all sorts of stuff. They were roughly the same age and came from the same neighbourhood, so finding common ground was easy. Not to mention, Bucky is pretty good at small talk - or he was. Something about Steve seems to throw a spanner in his works. If he wasn’t such a good guy, both in looks and personality, Bucky may have already given up, but Ma didn’t raise no quitter.

This conversation, however, feels stilted and slow. Bucky wonders if he’s bringing his own reluctance into things, removing the easy, friendly flow they usually have.

“I better go finishing packing,” Bucky says, lamely, after a while of watching Sarge play with Amelia.

Steve looks up - he’d also been staring, only at his daughter rather than Bucky’s own, furry child. “Oh - of course. Good luck with all of that.”

Bucky musters up a smile, patting Sarge roughly on the head. “Thanks. Enjoy your holidays.”

“You too. Drive safe.” Bucky gets the distinct feeling that they’re stuck in that awkward ‘ _no you hang up_ ’ kind of spot, but then Steve turns to Amelia. “We should go get your home reading book finished so I can sign it.”

Amelia whines dramatically, looking at her father like he’d betrayed her.

Steve maintains that stern look. “You can explain to Mrs Webb tomorrow why you didn’t do it, then.” Amelia whines again, but it’s obvious that she’s been convinced. “Say goodbye.”

“Bye,” Amelia sulks, patting Sarge twice more and then jumping off the plastic chair to the floor. Both father and daughter walk away, and Bucky tries not to be creepy, but he watches them head inside before turning himself. He just likes to make sure they’re safe. Steve can’t do all the looking out, after all.

It’s strange that saying goodbye - only for two, three months tops, mind you - is so shitty. Bucky has moved from house to house. He’s met cute neighbours before, and ones he’s made friends with, and even on moving out day he’s never felt this gutted.

Oh well. He’s got three months and plenty of probing questions from his mother to dwell on those feelings.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today you get a Steve POV chapter hooray!  
> Next chapter you get more amazing art 👀  
>  ~~and because ya girl is busy with school work, the entire thing isn't finished, so if you've got any shenanigans you'd like to see the Rogers-Barnes almost-a-family get up to, let me know and it might happen~~

Everything feels strange without Bucky there.

Sure, the house had been empty for a while before Bucky moved in. After Miss Bonnie passed her family had come through and cleaned the place out over a span of months. They did as well as they could, given the grieving process. Steve would know.

The house on the other side of Steve’s was occupied by a working couple who didn’t even wave when they passed one another in the street. The one time they’d communicated was when they’d been broken into and they dropped notes in everyone’s letterbox asking for any security camera footage of the day. When Steve had sent them a sympathetic text message, he hadn’t gotten a reply, and that was that.

Suffice it to say, Steve had gotten used to living alone, in a sense. He didn’t have many neighbours, knew some of Amelia’s friend’s parents on a superficial, play date level, and visited Sharon every few weeks with the girls. The only exception to the rule was Sam, because he was the only person Steve actually considered a friend - until Bucky moved in, that was.

It wasn’t the ideal set-up, but that was Steve’s life, and he hadn’t realised how nice it would be to change that until he’d met Bucky.

Something about the man had intrigued Steve from the get-go, even though he’d shown up on Steve’s doorstep offering gifts to his daughter without asking permission first. He’d seemed like a good guy, hair slicked back, clothes nice enough - on that occasion, at least. And then Steve had gotten to know him, and Bucky was - a lot. He was funny and sweet, and though he claimed not to want kids he handled them pretty well. Steve wouldn’t go so far as to say he was a natural, but Bucky took it in his stride, like he seemed to do with everything.

Including showing up with no notice to completely put Steve’s kitchen - and, to a lesser extent, his sanity - back together. Steve still didn’t know how to pay Bucky back for that. He’d gone over a few days later with some food and a card handmade by Amelia. Bucky had acted like that was enough, but Steve knew it wasn’t.

The problem now, however, was that Bucky wasn’t here, and Steve hadn’t expected to miss him like this.

He’d been gone for over a week, and Steve was on his annual break so he was left to skulk around the house, look after Emma, and wait for Amelia to finish school for the year. At least then he’d have something to think about.

Steve was doing some winter cleaning, going through and tidying out the girls’ rooms. The clothes Amelia had outgrown were set aside for Emma, when she got big enough to fit into them. The ones Emma had outgrown were put, if they were in good condition, into the donation pile. The rest were turned into rags or disposed. Steve cleaned out the linens, too, and bought some new flannel sheets and quilt sets for a Christmas gift.

The kitchen had had a mini-clean when Bucky tidied under the sink, and Steve carries that work through into the pantry, getting rid of food they were never going to eat. Steve had always hated baked beans - Peggy was the reason they’d been there, and… surely it was long enough now to get rid of them. Sam was always trying to get him to examine the phrase “ _too soon,_ ” and maybe this was the time for it.

Steve takes the cans and sits down at the kitchen bench, looking at them. They’d been hidden away behind the snacks Amelia took to school and the other things Steve stacked conveniently in front of them. But they’re here now.

He thinks about texting Sam. Sam’s good with this sort of stuff. He’s the tough love type of supportive friend, and he’d encourage Steve to do the right thing. Give them away to a shelter or something. Cook using them. Put the food to use.

But.

With a sigh, Steve instead takes a photo of the two tins. He pulls up his contacts. Bucky’s in there. Of course he is. Steve had spoken to Amelia on Bucky’s phone - another good deed Steve was helpless to repay. He’s listened to Bucky talk plenty of times about how all he really cooks for himself is noodles, unless he can be bothered with a trip to the grocery store and subsequent food prep, so it seems like a good idea. Baked beans are good for you, right?

_To Bucky: Attached: 1 image(s)._

_We’re cleaning out. Do you want these?_

Before Steve has a chance to think logically about this, he sends it.

A second later, he realises that it’s the stupidest thing he’s ever done.

_To Bucky: Sorry. That’s weird. I just don’t want to throw them out._

How was that for starting a conversation? Sending someone a message about baked beans of all things? Steve puts his head in his hands. He’d never been good at talking to people - Peggy had been the one to approach him.

Not that Steve was trying to _date_ Bucky or anything, just-

Building relationships was hard. Romantic or platonic.

The phone vibrates on the table, and Steve groans. Bucky’s going to hate him. Maybe Bucky will feel like Steve is calling him poor, or trying to tell him what to do. It’s all possible.

Reluctantly, Steve peeks out from between his fingers.

_From Bucky: Dude yes!!!!_

_From Bucky: Not weird at all, I love free food._

_From Bucky: Ma’ll be happy someone’s feeding me in her absence._ 😊😊

Steve lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

_To Bucky: You know that I’ll give you actual food whenever you want right?_

_To Bucky: But sure I’ll give you any weird canned food we have._

With the fear of Bucky rejecting him gone, Steve returns to his tidying. He hears his phone vibrate on the hardwood surface of the kitchen table, but he ignores it. Now that there’s someone for the food to go to (and certainly not in a charity case way, but in a _‘maybe he’ll stop eating ramen for every meal’_ way), it’s easier to separate it out. There’s a lot of stuff Steve had bought when Amelia liked it - she’d gone through a phase where all she wanted to eat for breakfast was canned pumpkin soup, and _that_ had been a nightmare - and it now just took up space.

In the end, Steve has a few more tins to put aside, most of them soup from Amelia’s misguided food phases. Kids are weird.

_From Bucky: I love weird food._

_From Bucky: I’ll try anything._

Steve laughs aloud before snapping a photo of his fairly normal haul.

_To Bucky: Attached: 1 image(s)._

_These have vegetables in them. Tell your mother I’m taking care of you._

_To Bucky: Sorry they aren’t super weird._

_To Bucky: I saw canned lasagne at the shops once._

He digs out a bag to put all the food into and places it beside the door, even though Bucky won’t be back for at least two months. That’s a long time. Steve shifts the bag from the door back into the kitchen and back again. He wants to keep it somewhere he’ll remember, so the food doesn’t spend another few years growing old in his house, but he doesn’t really want to be constantly tripping over it.

_From Bucky: Please buy that next time?!!_

_From Bucky: I’d try canned lasagne so quick Ma would disown me._

_To Bucky: I don’t want to make your mother hate me, Buck._

_To Bucky: Why can’t I just make you lasagne instead?_

It feels -

It _feels_ flirtatious. Messages like these. It probably isn’t, but it feels like it, and it’s making Steve feel -

Something.

He’d yet to mention Bucky to Sam, who’s always asking him about his life and what’s going on, even though he’s not Steve’s counsellor anymore. It’s just a friend thing. Steve should really tell him. But what do you say? My neighbour is cute and sweet, he’s pretty good with the girls, and that’s all there is to it. Sam would be pressuring him into setting up some kind of date. He’s always talking about the moving on process.

_From Bucky: You’d make me lasagne?_

_From Bucky: That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me._

_To Bucky: I’ll make you whatever you want so long as you’re eating properly._

_From Bucky: Now you’re sounding like Ma for real._

_From Bucky: Go back to the weird canned food talk._

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that. His knowledge of weird canned food is literally the one time Peggy had picked up canned lasagne in the foreign food aisle to show him, a scandalised look on her face. They only checked that part of the store in hopes some odd British food would show up, but it never did - or when it did, it wasn’t what she’d wanted. Peggy had always been so specific about the things she wanted. She was never the sort of person you could go shopping with and just wander. She had to have a list, and that was what you got. Steve was bad at that. Amelia could throw fifteen things in the cart and he’d buy them all with only a token protest at best. He’s always struggled with maintaining rules in public. Steve doesn’t want people to see Amelia crying and think he’s doing a bad job.

He sighs and rereads Bucky’s message. No use getting caught up on unhelpful thoughts. He’s learned that, at least.

 _To Bucky: Sorry, lasagne’s all I had._ 😔

Parent life is getting distracted midway through a conversation: the phone rings, and it’s the nurse at Amelia’s school calling about her bumping her head on the playground, and can he come and pick her up? It’s not until later that evening, when a sooky (but absolutely _fine_ six-year-old) is in bed and Emma’s enjoying her tummy time, making grabs at the toys Steve’s laid out, that he checks his phone again.

Bucky has sent through five screenshots of assorted canned food. One of them is a cheeseburger in a can. Steve is mildly concerned.

_To Bucky: Please stop._

Bucky just replies with five smiling emojis.

—

Bucky spends the next few days sending Steve an assortment of images. Most of them are of food - some of it in cans, some of it not - and Steve isn’t sure what to make of it. He replies appropriately every time, or, at least, he _thinks_ it’s appropriate. The majority of the replies are Steve being offended at some abomination and offering to make Bucky real food.

He has, apparently, earned himself a special place in the heart of one Winifred Barnes because of it.

Steve is starting to miss Bucky less, which is partially due to the fact that the other man messages him a _lot_ , and mostly because Amelia is home for winter break. Though Steve is happy about the whole set-up, Amelia is less so. The entertainment factor of setting up the Christmas tree only lasts the day they do it, and Christmas movies sustain her for a couple of hours before she’s moping.

“What’s the problem?” Steve asks, perhaps not as kindly as he could have done, when Amelia sulks around the kitchen as he starts working on dinner.

She drops into one of the dining chairs with a heavy sigh, well beyond her years. “I miss Bucky,” Amelia tells the table.

Hearing her voice that as her problem is surprising, but it brings a smile to Steve’s face. He wasn’t the only one, then. “I do too, baby. Why do you miss him?”

“When he comes over he brings cake and he always lets me play with Sarge even if it’s almost dinnertime.” She scowls at the table, tracing a line of woodgrain with her nail. “When’s he coming back?”

“End of February, I think.” Steve’s not entirely sure because Bucky had been somewhat vague on the dates. From the sound of it, as soon as the temperature was more reasonable he’d be back, but it probably also depended on how much work he had to do for his father.

Amelia, who has clearly done the maths in her head, gasps. “He’s not going to be here for _Christmas?_ ”

“No, baby,” Steve aims for placating, but Amelia is slamming her hands down on the table indignantly at his response. “ _Amelia_!”

“Well, if he misses Christmas, who’s going to give him presents?” Clearly this is the most pressing issue for a six-year-old, and Steve tries not to laugh. She might be adorable to him, but in her mind, this is a crisis. He doesn’t want to belittle her concern like that.

Steve leaves the water to boil in the pot, lid resting by the side of the stove top, and sits at the table opposite Amelia. “Sweetie, Bucky has a family. He has a mom and a dad and a sister. They’ll probably buy each other presents for Christmas.” Steve doesn’t miss the way Amelia’s eyes grow shiny with unshed tears, because he is _not_ having another meltdown today (who’d have thought cabin fever would sink in three days after winter break started?). “He’ll be fine.”

“But what if I make him a present? How’s he going to get it?” Amelia’s bottom lip wobbles. Steve is well aware of the power of that wobbly lip, and so is Amelia. She uses it to get her way as much as possible.

“We can give it to him when he gets back,” Steve says, firm but kind. Just because he’s not accepting tantrums, does not mean he’s going to be difficult about it. Amelia will no doubt forget about Christmas as soon as it’s over and she’s back at school, which is long before Bucky’s due to return.

Amelia shakes her head so fast that her ponytail flies out behind her. “No, he _has_ to get it for Christmas, Daddy.”

Steve inhales and exhales slowly. “What if you make him a card and we can send him a photo of it on my phone? Like how you send your school stuff to Aunty Sharon to show her?”

That suggestion sees Amelia’s eyes glinting not with the promise of tears, but with the havoc she’s going to wreak using all her craft supplies. “Can I use the craft box?”

The craft box started out as a good idea - Steve bought little things on sale, glitter glue and foam stickers and rolls of patterned washi tape, and put them in a box for crafting. What became of the box was less a good idea, and more a plastic tub that, once opened, spilled craft supplies across every surface of the house. Steve would never get the glitter out of all the nooks and crannies, and somehow the cheap washi tape he bought, while not able to stick to construction paper, clung to the wall like it was cemented in place.

The longer Steve takes to reply, the more Amelia’s face goes from excited back to morose, and Steve holds his hands up. It’s either give Amelia the craft box or put up with her moping around the house complaining about everything. So far, Steve wasn’t enjoying that, and he was not about to do another week of it. With a heavy sigh, he grinds out the forbidden words: “Yes, you can use the craft box.”

Amelia’s gone before he even finishes the last word.

—

Steve doesn’t see his daughter again for an entire hour, which is a win given she complained every half-hour about being bored during their holiday screening of _The Polar Express_ earlier that day. Amelia’s an outdoorsy kid, and all this ‘being inside not running around’ was clearly not working well with her. At least Emma didn’t complain about being inside as much - now that she was starting to crawl, all she wanted to do was be left on the floor to build her strength with excited coos.

When Steve calls out that dinner’s ready, he gets no response. That, in itself, is unusual, since Amelia can put away enough food to shame a grown man some nights. Must be because she’s cooped up inside and not able to kick thirty balls over the fence that she’s not needing so much sustenance.

After the second time Steve tries to summon her, he gives up and goes to knock on Amelia’s door.

“Hang on!” Comes the tiny voice from inside, and Steve - in a great show of patience, given he’s hungry and the spaghetti dish he made is rapidly cooling on the dining table - hangs on.

It only takes a few moments for Amelia to open the door, presenting to Steve the card she’s made. Her spelling is - well, getting there. She’s spelled Bucky with two k’s, and _Krismus_ as a word is a great show of her understanding of phonics, even if it’s wildly inaccurate.

The cover is a portrait of all of them: Bucky and Sarge, Steve, Amelia, and Emma, all standing against a rainbow glitter backdrop. It looks like - well, like the sort of family portrait Amelia usually comes home with, except now two members have been added. Steve knows it’s a kid thing (Amelia has drawn enough images of their family featuring Sharon, or, on the odd occasion, Sam), but it still feels too. attached. Especially for someone they haven’t known that long.

 _Especially_ for someone who’s going to be packing up and leaving soon enough. But Steve can’t really argue with Amelia’s image, not when every time Bucky texts him it brings a smile to Steve’s face for reasons he’s not going to examine too closely.

“Wow, sweetie, that’s beautiful,” Steve gently takes the offered card, a showering of glitter falling in the process. Amelia doesn’t notice. “Wow,” Steve repeats as he opens the card, and inside Amelia has created a pop-up card. She’d gone through a phase with those - had it been Valentine’s Day? Steve couldn’t remember, but he’d wound up with about a hundred pop-up cards. No words, no pictures, just the pop up and the scrap paper left on the floor. At least Bucky has his red, wonky, pop-up love heart and a message. The message inside echoes the one on the front cover - _Merry Christmas!_ \- with more pictures of them all at the park.

“Can you show him?” Amelia asks, proud smile on her face. A lot of people say she looks like Steve, what with the fair hair and blue eyes, but she has Peggy’s smile. Even if she didn’t, she always managed to melt his heart. Steve wraps an arm around one shoulder and pulls her in for a side-hug, ignoring Amelia’s protests.

When she finally ducks out of his hold, Steve hands the card back and ushers Amelia out into the kitchen. “After dinner?”

There’s a brief flash of an argument in Amelia’s eyes, and then she notices they have bolognese for dinner and she gives in without a fight. There’s time enough to place the card in the centre of the table, safely out of the spaghetti-sauce danger zone, and then Amelia’s shoving her face so full of spaghetti there’s no hope of any conversation.

Not that she doesn’t make an admirable effort.

“Swallow your food first,” Steve instructs, as he always does, and Amelia ignores him, as she always does. He remembers the look Bucky had given him at dinner, when he’d asked Amelia to speak without her mouth full of nachos. Bucky was such a smartass.

Once she’s swallowed the last bite, the space around her mouth stained red, Amelia’s points her (also red) finger at the card. “You have to send it now!”

Steve’s barely eaten his meal - he’s been alternating between feeding himself and spoon-feeding Emma some of the blended-up sauce - when he sighs. “Can I finish eating first?” It’s not a hugely taxing request, but the dramatic eye roll he gets makes it feel that way.

“ _Dad_ ,” Amelia draws his name out as long as possible for maximum effect.

Steve relents. “Go wash your hands, then I’ll give you my phone.”

Amelia cleans up in record time and makes a grabby motion with her (now relatively spotless) hands. Steve unlocks his phone and opens a message to Bucky, offering it to his daughter. She doesn’t even need instructions on how to send messages, because Amelia was one of those so-called ‘digital natives’ Steve heard about on the weird parenting blogs he sometimes (often) wound up on.

Steve returns to feeding himself and his fussier, smaller human. Emma is more interested in babbling about something than eating, so Steve is trying to catch her open mouth and feed her that way, but it’s more messy than it is successful.

“Hello!” Amelia chimes, and Steve ignores it - she might be talking to any number of things, including inanimate objects as part of a game.

It’s not until a voice responds that Steve looks up.

Amelia’s holding the phone at arm’s length, face still covered in spaghetti-residue, smiling happily.

“Amelia, what are you doing?” Steve asks, placing a spoonful of food back in Emma’s bowl so he can investigate.

“I’m talking, Dad,” Amelia says, turning to glare at him for his lack of manners, and Steve recognises the laugh.

Steve sighs and comes around to the other side of the table, spotting Bucky sitting on a couch and looking politely at the camera. God, how inconvenient - it would be about dinner time for him, too.

“Bucky, I’m so sorry,” Steve is saying, and then Bucky’s laughing again, waving a hand at the camera.

“Stop,” Bucky’s voice comes quietly through the speaker, “it’s fine, really.”

Amelia wriggles under Steve, who’s leaning over her in an attempt to retrieve his phone. “I’m trying to show Bucky his Christmas card,” she says petulantly, nudging her shoulder into Steve to try and dislodge him.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, ignoring Amelia’s whining, still feeling like a horrible inconvenience. Bucky doesn’t look upset, but that doesn’t mean he’s _not_ on the inside.

“One hundred percent,” Bucky is still smiling up at him through the phone, and Steve fidgets. “Go do whatever you’re doing. We’re fine.”

Steve’s still hesitating when Amelia starts chatting again, loudly, and that’s his cue to exit. Steve tries not to eavesdrop as Amelia awkwardly attempts to hold the phone and card simultaneously (she ends up turning the camera around and laying the card flat on the dining table), explaining the steps she used to make each part of the card. Bucky asks about the pop-up part of the card, which leads to a ten-minute-long explanation involving technical terms such as “ _thingy_ _”._

Since Bucky’s said he’s happy talking, Steve doesn’t interrupt. He finishes eating and so does Emma. He cleans up the dishes, and the discussion topic has moved on from the card to something else. Steve can’t quite figure out what it is, exactly (no eavesdropping), but he walks past and catches sight of Bucky posing with someone Steve has never seen before.

“Dad, look! Bucky has a dad too,” Amelia calls when Steve is about to take Emma for a change. He stops and turns, holding Emma on one hip as he leans down to look into the camera.

Bucky’s dad looks a lot like him - or, rather Bucky looks a lot like his dad, except far younger. Obviously. He’s got that kindness about him, something that Steve had noticed from their first meeting despite how defensive he’d been.

“Hi,” Steve manages, lifting his free hand in greeting.

Bucky’s dad, in typical dad fashion, leans in closer to the screen to get a look.

“This is George, my dad,” Bucky runs the introduction, and Steve gets a gruff hello from George.

Amelia points the camera at Steve. “This is my dad.” She states, and both men on the phone start to laugh at her. “And this is Emma, she’s my sister.” Amelia moves the camera, now back on front-view, so it’s getting a close-up of Emma.

“Who’s that?”

Suddenly, the phone is being pulled back so Amelia can look at the screen herself. Bucky’s mom is on-screen now - again, another assumption, but she looks like the woman Bucky’s described: a doting mother and grandmother. Her face radiates kindness, even through the phone. How did Bucky get so lucky with family? Both his mother and father looked incredibly lovely, though Steve could certainly see the firm streak in Winifred’s face. She was definitely the sort of woman to scold you for not finishing your dinner.

“Are they your friends you were telling us about, James?” Winifred asks as she, too, tries to put her face closer to the screen, adjusting her glasses. Steve’s never considered before that Bucky is not actually Bucky’s _real name_. He doesn’t really look like a James, not to Steve, but it’s good to know. Maybe that’s the way to get to him when he’s being a jerk.

“Your name is James?” Steve asks, but it’s overridden by Amelia asking, on a gasp, “you have a _mom too_?”

“Look at you, how lovely,” Winifred is saying, and then she and George are talking at the same time about something so everything else is inaudible.

Bucky ducks out of that conversation and reappears again back on the couch he was occupying at the beginning of the call. “Sorry, once they get started they don’t stop.”

“Same with this one, I think,” Steve says, placing a hand on Amelia’s head - earning him an indignant, “ _hey!_ ” for it. “Can you finish up your call and get ready for your bath, please?”

“I should go have a shower, too. But you can call me whenever you want, alright?” Bucky offers, and Steve is grateful to have an adult ally in this. Amelia’s stubbornness is unmatched. “I’ll be back in a few months, it’s not that long.”

“I’ll keep your card for you,” Amelia says, and in true kid fashion ends the call after she’s said, “bye!” without waiting for Bucky’s response.

Steve, hearing that his phone is actually disconnected and Amelia’s not just waiting for the opportune moment to start bothering Bucky again, takes Emma to her room to get changed.

Amelia appears behind him, and Steve jumps. “He likes the card!” She says triumphantly, holding it in both hands, smiling brightly.

“Of course he does, you worked so hard on it.” Steve’s glad that changing a baby is a skill that gets easier over time, because he almost mindlessly completes the task now. “Where are you going to put it, so it stays safe until Bucky gets back?”

Amelia stands there thoughtfully as Emma is dressed in a fluffy onesie and laid beneath her mobile, which has been her favourite thing as of late.

“On your desk!” Amelia decides and she’s darting into Steve’s room before he can say anything about it.

Steve gives up on that one and goes to run Amelia’s bath. Some things aren’t worth the battle.

—

They spend Christmas Eve and Day with Aunty Sharon who is, in fact, Amelia’s cousin, but it’s easier to call her Aunty. Neither of them have a whole lot of family around: Steve’s immediate family passed away years ago, and Sharon had moved to the States with Peggy. Look how well that had turned out.

Steve sighs. He’s trying not to be bitter. It’s Christmas.

They decorate Sharon’s smaller Christmas tree, and Amelia tries harder on this one than she did their one at home. She carefully compiles a plate of cookies for Santa, with carrots on the side for the reindeer, and pours a glass of milk. It all gets left by the fireplace on Sharon’s ground floor, and devoured through the night (well, the cookies get eaten - Steve takes a bite out of the carrot and tosses the rest in the bin, giving the illusion of it). Steve arranges the gifts he’s been storing in Sharon’s spare room under the tree, while Sharon carefully leaves silhouetted boot marks on the floor with flour and one of Steve’s shoes.

Amelia shrieks at 6am and it’s all downhill from there.

It’s a nice day. It’s Emma’s first Christmas: she doesn’t understand what’s happening, but Amelia’s ‘My First Christmas’ hand-me-down onesie is cute enough on her that it doesn’t matter. Plus, she gets to scrunch pieces of paper, which entertains her for most of the day.

Amelia, on the other hand, knows _exactly_ what’s going on. She delights in all the gifts she’s gotten - “ _Santa got me a big girl bike!_ ” - playing with each for a good ten minutes before forgetting it exists. They move the cars out of the garage so that Amelia can practise riding the bike which is much larger than she is, and they soothe her with an abundance of food when she falls over for the hundredth time.

Once lunch is done they laze the afternoon away watching Christmas movies, or supervising Amelia colouring in her new My Little Pony activity book. They’re dozing off to _Elf_ when Steve’s phone vibrates in his pocket, startling him into wakefulness again.

_From Bucky: Attached: 2 image(s)._

_Merry Christmas!_

He’s attached two images: one of the amazing Christmas spread they have, table loaded with roast meats and vegetables, their own dinner plates vying for space in the crowded table. The other is a selfie of Bucky and Sarge, each wearing a Santa hat. It’s painfully cute, and Steve stares at the image long enough for Sharon to notice.

“Who’s that?” She asks, leaning over a napping Amelia to better look at the picture.

Steve feels embarrassed. He shouldn’t do this here. Peggy was as good as a sister to Sharon; they’d been raised so close to one another. It was disrespectful to find the picture as endearing as he did, let alone in front of his dead wife’s niece. He clears his throat and closes out of the pictures. “It’s our neighbour,” Steve explains in a small voice, locking his phone and turning his attention back to the movie.

Sharon remains there, hovering by his shoulder. “You know that’s fine, right?” She asks after a stretch of silence, the only sound in the room coming from the TV. “I’m not saying he’s anything other than a neighbour, Steve, but you know you’re allowed to like other people.” Sharon’s just as bad as Sam is. Always encouraging him to live his life. He is living. That’s what he’s been doing this whole time, isn’t it?

“Sharon,” Steve says, though her name comes out like a plea. He doesn’t want to have this conversation - ever, preferably. They’d had it not long after Peggy had passed, Sharon giving her awkward blessing, but Steve still felt like… there wasn’t even a word for it. Like dirt. Worse than that. “You’ve told me.”

“I know I have,” Sharon has the same no-nonsense attitude Peggy did, and she employs it when she thinks Steve is being an idiot. He’s learned that she thinks that about him a lot. “But I don’t think you’ve ever listened. You’re allowed to move on.”

From his lap, Amelia asks, “we movin’ somewhere?” in a sleepy slur.

Steve pats her head gently. “No, baby. We’re not moving anything.”

He doesn’t respond to Bucky’s message.

—

Steve worries he’s upset Bucky by not answering, but opening his messages still feels like a betrayal. It’s been almost a week - it’s New Year’s Eve, in fact - since they had any contact. Steve hasn’t deleted the message, but it’s been hanging over his head.

“You know, we could be out doin’ something fun right now,” Sam states, feet up on Steve’s coffee table. The television is playing the lead up to the countdown live from Times Square. Steve isn’t particularly invested in it. When he was younger - when he had someone to go out with - it was more of an exciting time. Steve could still remember how each year felt like a new opportunity, another adventure with Peggy. She’d been pregnant her last New Year, so they’d just stayed in. It had still been nice - nicer than any New Year since.

Steve raises an eyebrow. The kids are both in bed. Sharon had offered to take them, but Steve didn’t want to ruin her night. She, at least, had things she could be doing. “You didn’t have to spend time with me.”

“Sure I did,” Sam says, folding one leg underneath his body so he can turn and face Steve. “I’m worried about you, always holing yourself away in here.”

Steve heaves a sigh, taking a sip of the beer - singular - he’d gotten for the night. Sam had laughed, but what if something happened? If there was an emergency, he had to be ready to act. It was all well and good for the childless people to think of him as crazy over the worst-case scenarios his mind provided, but Steve had driven Amelia to the emergency room over stupid accidents enough to know better. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Steve, buddy, you’re punishing yourself at this point.” Sam knew how to cut straight to the core of a problem. Given his profession - a counsellor - that made a whole lot of sense. Steve had thought that them becoming friends outside of the counsellor-counselled dynamic might have changed things, but it didn’t. It had gotten worse, in fact, because now Sam didn’t have professional boundaries to respect. He just overstepped as much as he felt necessary. “It’s been long enough.”

Another sigh. “It’s not _about_ that.”

“So, why’re we spending another New Years in your lounge room?”

Steve wishes he could get mad at Sam. He’s looking at Steve not like he’s trying to prove a point, but as if he’s waiting for a legitimate answer. “I don’t like going out.”

Sam doesn’t look happy with that answer, but he lets it slide for now. Steve would be a fool to think Sam would let him get away with anything.

Sooner than expected - is it already 11:50? - they’re gearing up for the countdown. One of the hosts starts talking about making your resolutions, pulling random people out from the droves to share theirs. Steve’s never been to Times Square for New Year’s Eve - he didn’t plan on ever going, either, not with how crowded it looked - but it was so iconic that it felt like mandatory viewing.

“What’s your resolution?” Sam asks, over the top of someone who’s 2018 resolution had evidently been to say hi to his mother on live TV. A dozen other people clearly have the same goal in mind, as they clamber for space and toss up strange hand gestures. Steve doesn’t recognise any except the peace sign.

Steve shrugs one shoulder. His beer’s long gone warm, but he keeps drinking it anyway. “You got one?”

Sam looks thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I wanna leave work at work this year. Get out at closing time. Spend more time on a social life that’s less of this.” He gestures between them with his beer and a smirk.

Perhaps Sam is expecting to get a rise out of Steve, but it doesn’t work. “Those are good resolutions.”

“Now it’s your turn.”

Steve doesn’t have a resolution. Survive another year, maybe. He gets out of work on time - he doesn’t care much for it, honestly, so the thought of hanging around after his office hours end is too much. Social life? That’s not a high priority, either. “Do more with the girls?” Steve phrases it like the question it is. He’s not sure, either.

“What about a resolution for you?”

“Sam-,”

“ _Steve_ ,” Sam counters, “make a resolution for you. We could clean out the basement-”

“- Sam, _no_ , you know we can’t do that.” The thought of going through everything stored down there - going through all of Peggy’s things - is horrific. Steve puts his half-finished beer on the table, nausea rising in him. At this point Steve can’t tell if it’s a learned response or still raw. Either way, he can’t face it. The basement is - out of bounds. Permanently.

“How long’s it been now?”

“Does that matter?”

Sam is poised to say something else when Steve’s phone rings, and Steve latches onto the opportunity for a distraction. He doesn’t check the caller ID, simply swipes up to accept the call.

It turns out to be a video call. He realises this when someone yells directly in his ear to, “move back!”

When he does, he’s able to see the image: Bucky’s smiling at him, teeth shining in the lowlight of wherever he is. “Steve!” Bucky calls, and it’s immediately clear that he’s enjoying his New Year in a way Sam would find more appropriate. He’s sitting on the floor somewhere - a park? - and there’s a shadowy person to his side. “Happy New Year!”

“Hey, Buck,” Steve answers, voice much more subdued. Sam is watching the exchange with a raised eyebrow. Steve ignores him. “What are you doing?”

“Callin’ you, dumbass,” Bucky says, and the woman to his side starts laughing, though it may be at something else. His words sound warm and rounded, like he’s not quite drunk enough yet to be slurring them all into one. “Fuck - sorry, are the kids up?”

Steve shakes his head, smiling. “No, Bucky, it’s almost midnight. They’re both in bed.”

“So I can swear as much as I want now?” Bucky asks, still grinning that stupid, cheesy grin of his.

“If you really want to,” Steve says. Someone next to Bucky - not the same person who laughed, but a deeper voice, cries out, “ _fuck yes_ ,” and Steve chooses to ignore it. “What’re you calling for, Buck?”

“We’re waitin’ for the fireworks to start and I thought you might wanna look. I guessed you’d stay in again because you don’t seem like the party type but it’s not fair for you t’miss out,” Bucky rambles, and the camera abruptly shakes in his hand.

It turns to the rear-facing mode. One of Bucky’s friends waves. Bucky’s still talking as he gets up, and Steve’s trying to make sense of the shaking camera. “I dunno if you ever did the fireworks when you lived here - I dunno when you moved out either, you don’t talk much - but I thought maybe you had and maybe you’d wanna see.” He’s stepping around an assortment of people. A number of them are on the floor on blankets, wrapped up in heavy coats. It looks like a cold night.

It becomes clear after a few moments what Bucky’s doing. Soon enough he’s standing at the foot of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Arch, the low light making it look larger than Steve’s ever seen it before.

“You’re at Prospect Park?” Steve asks, despite already knowing the answer.

“Yeah. Did you ever come here for the fireworks?” Bucky switches the camera back to front-facing mode, and now he’s standing in front of a streetlamp which makes him look pale but no less -

Steve pointedly ignores that thought.

“Ma used to take me to Coney Island,” Steve explains softly, but Bucky seems to be able to hear him okay. “We’d line up for ages to ride the Wonder Wheel. We’d always try to time it with the fireworks but it never worked.”

“Fuck, Clint _said_ we should’ve gone to Coney Island. I picked you as more of a park guy. I dunno why.” Bucky begins his journey back to his group. Steve watches as he concentrates on the ground, picking his way over people who must all have the same idea as him. Steve had never gone to Prospect Park for New Years, but he heard the fireworks were good.

“That’s alright. I like parks, Buck.” It’s ridiculous how endearing it is that Bucky thought of him for this, even if only in passing. He had absolutely no reason to - Steve was just his strange neighbour. That was it. “I drew the Arch once for my portfolio.”

Bucky drops down heavily onto the blanket. Maybe-Clint yelps indignantly - Bucky tells him to shut up. “You drew the whole thing?”

“Yeah, I-”

“You should show me. I wanna see your art. I saw that picture in Amelia’s room and it’s amazing, Steve,” Bucky’s back to rambling, and Steve doesn’t bother interrupting him. “You ever think about doing that for a job? People’d pay shitloads for a mural like that.”

Steve’s thought of it. Just a passing fancy. But that was before he had to support two kids on his own. Peggy had liked her job, and so her income could’ve been the stable one, supporting them both. Not permanently, of course, but just while he established himself in the business. “It’d be nice.” Steve decides on as the safest response.

“Well, you should do it. Make it your 2019 goal or something. You made your resolutions?”

Steve isn’t repeating this conversation. At least Bucky is more easily distracted than Sam, who’s like a dog with a bone. “What are your resolutions?”

“Get off the phone, the countdown’s starting,” snaps a female voice, and Bucky’s phone shakes.

“You doing the countdown?” Bucky asks, and when Steve nods he looks relieved. “Alright, you can do it with us and then we’ll watch the fireworks.”

The camera changes angle again, offering a view of nothing but darkness at present, broken up by phone screens. They’re slightly out of time with the countdown on the TV - Bucky’s group start chanting a second earlier, and Steve just follows along with him. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, but Steve’s ignoring that - it’ll be a later-talk anyway, so why ruin a perfectly good moment?

There’s a cry of “Happy New Year!”, and Steve’s sure his own name is including in Bucky’s, before the fireworks start. Steve moves the camera so Sam can watch too, as the fireworks shoot up into the air and shatter the darkness with their colours. The ball drop happens, forgotten, on the television screen. Grainy, shaky footage of fireworks is much more exciting. Amelia would love this, Steve thinks as he watches.

Just as the show’s about to end, the call abruptly cuts out.

Steve attempts to ring Bucky back, but it goes straight to message bank. He must have run out of battery trying to stream a half-hour firework show for Steve. That, or he’s had enough. Steve can’t stop the thought that maybe Bucky had expected something from him, instead of just an awkward conversation.

“Don’t ask,” Steve beats Sam to the punch. They can talk about Bucky later if Sam really wants to, but there’s no point now. Steve doesn’t have an answer, and he’ll have to prepare one. “He’s just our neighbour.”

“Seems like it,” Sam clearly doesn’t believe a word Steve’s said, but that’s not Steve’s problem.

_To Bucky: Happy New Year!_

_To Bucky: Thank you for the call. It was really nice._

_To Bucky: Hope you have a good night._ 😊

—

They return to their regularly scheduled program of texting each other throughout January and the beginning part of February. Bucky apologises for his drunken call - Steve tells him not to worry about it, which is the truth, though not the _whole_ truth. The whole truth of it is, Steve hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Bucky since then. It was fine when Bucky was his handsome, friendly neighbour. Steve was friends with plenty of attractive people without necessarily being attracted _to_ them. What was different was that level of consideration - that Bucky had made choices with his life with the sole intention of making Steve, in some small way, happy. Going to that length to try and give him fond memories of home, it was… more than Steve deserved, really, from someone who was just a friend.

Steve wouldn’t call what he was doing putting up with Bucky’s conversations, because he liked them. He enjoyed the odd messages Bucky sent him. A lot were whinging about how cold it was, and sometimes Steve was treated to a selfie of Bucky looking very sour in an adorable, Winnie-knitted beanie and glove set. Steve wasn’t very good at selfies, so he usually sent a photo of something around him back: his cup of coffee, the work he was doing (important parts blurred obviously), or an Amelia-selfie, because (unlike her father) she loved them.

Bucky also enjoyed sending through photos of the pets he found on his different jobs. There were backyard dogs and cats in windows and, on one occasion, a snake enclosure complete with a python. He’d shown Amelia who had then decided that they absolutely, 110% needed a snake or she would die.

_To Bucky: Thanks to you I now have to deal with Amelia asking me for a snake for her birthday._

_From Bucky: When’s her birthday???? Uncle Bucky will get her a corn snake._

_To Bucky: I’m blocking this number._

_From Bucky:_ 😊😊😊😊😊

Their messages never touch on anything more personal than whether Steve likes pineapple on his pizzas (absolutely not, he wasn’t a heathen - Bucky, apparently, was), but it becomes such a daily habit that if Bucky doesn’t message him every day it feels like something’s missing.

Sam had tried a couple of times to have a discussion with Steve about Bucky, because Sam - in his own words - thought that the call Steve had gotten had been more than friendly. Steve was avoiding the conversation, mostly because he could see where Sam was coming from now, but he didn’t fancy admitting it out loud. Things were easier when they weren’t discussed.

Amelia went back to school in early January but still sometimes sent Bucky photos or gave him a call, which the other man always made time to accept and dedicate at least half an hour to. Emma started to get on top of her sleeping pattern, even with teething, and Steve was finally able to sleep for most of the night.

It was as if everything was falling into its place. No, Steve wasn’t moving on like Sam and Sharon had suggested. That’s not what this was. But building a friendship with someone, that was healthy, right?

They continue like that until they’re approaching the end of February and Steve hasn’t heard any word about Bucky coming back. He shouldn’t care as much as he does, but Amelia still sometimes forlornly hangs her head over the fence between their houses, and Steve can relate to that feeling.

He bites the bullet.

_To Bucky: When are you back?_

_To Bucky: Amelia misses you._

_To Bucky: Well, mostly Sarge._

There’s no harm in asking, and it doesn’t _sound_ desperate (does it? It’s three messages - which he’s done before, but still, not about _missing_ Bucky), but Steve’s left hanging for a full day before Bucky answers him.

_From Bucky: What are you doing March 9th?_

_From Bucky: And I’ll be home soon, probably next week. Idk._

_From Bucky: He misses her. I miss you guys too._

Steve’s definitely reading too much into the messaging thing by that point, but when Bucky replies in three separate messages it’s easier for him to relax. The question about his availability is surprising - Steve certainly does blush a little, because it sounds like Bucky’s trying to ask him out _just a little_ but it’s oddly specific. Steve’s never busy, anyway. The only thing he has to arrange for any event is for Sharon to take the girls for the night.

_To Bucky: Uh, nothing? Why? Is something happening?_

_From Bucky: It’s my birthday on the 10th so Clint and Nat are gonna come up. I thought maybe we could go out to a bar somewhere?? And if you’ve got any friends they can come along. It’ll be fun!!_ 😊

Steve makes immediate plans to have Sharon take the kids. He also, reluctantly, texts Sam. While Steve doesn’t want to have this conversation, he’s also well aware that he knows nothing about good places to enjoy a birthday. Besides, it might get Sam off his back, just for a little while.

_To Sam: Bucky wants to go out for his birthday and asked me to bring a friend so. You’re invited._

_From Sam: This the same dude who’s not your boyfriend??_

_To Sam: Yes, that one. March 9th, Wilson._

_From Sam: We aren’t gonna talk about this??_

_To Sam: Absolutely not._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it guys things are about to get REAL  
> also you are treated to another  
> amazing  
> fantastic  
> heartbreakingly gorgeous  
> piece of art by [Odetteandodile](https://odette-and-odile.tumblr.com/) who is THE most talented of all of the people!  
> also thank you everyone who has been following along and commenting you truly make my day 💕😭  
> anyway enough rambling let's go!

Bucky gets back a week before his designated birthday outing, and as much as he wants to race over and see Steve, he doesn’t.

He comes in the oiled back gate, quieter now than the first time he’d arrived, though the house doesn’t look any better for all the work he’s done. Before letting Sarge out of the car, Bucky performs a quick sweep for any children’s toys that may have found their way into the yard.

He winds up tossing two balls and a frisbee back over the fence, which is strange given it’s the end of winter and still freezing, but Bucky’s learned not to doubt Amelia’s commitment to anything.

Once inside, Bucky goes through his usual unpacking routine. The fridge gets filled with leftovers from a cooler Winnie had sent him off with, and the wardrobe gets stocked with some new clothes. There are now a couple of nicer outfits in there - for just in case, Bucky figures.

Sarge gets straight to work, sniffing every inch of the yard in case another dog has broken in during their time away. He’s busy marking the boundaries again, and Bucky sends a few subtle glances over the fence. Steve’s car isn’t there, so they must be out somewhere. It is a Saturday, and though Steve hadn’t shown himself to be much of the going out type, anything could have happened since Bucky left.

Bucky gets to work, too, only casting occasional looks over the fence as he does. It's pure coincidence (not him being a creep), that he's outside when the family get home later that afternoon.

He smiles and pops his head over the fence, catching Steve in the process of unloading a child, a baby (much bigger than when Bucky saw her last) and all their associated items: diaper bag, balls, enough clothes to last them a week away, and a bike that certainly wasn't there the last time Bucky was in town. Steve looks tired, but not to his usual, crying on the kitchen floor level. That must be a good sign.

Amelia spots him first, and it must have been a big day because the usual pep in her step is absent. She drags herself over to the chair, as if it’s a chore, and all but drapes her body over it. Sarge has more energy than she does, bouncing around and barking in his excitement. That, at least, brings a smile to her face.

While Amelia hasn’t said anything, Steve does - “Bucky, hey!” he calls upon looking up, arms laden with everything a human could possibly need. He carefully places some of it on the floor, keeping Emma on his hip. She’s sleepily resting her head against his shoulder, eyes mostly closed.

“Hey,” Bucky greets, and there’s a sudden sense of _home_ that comes with Steve he doesn’t want to examine too closely. “Big day?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, using his free hand to push his hair back. “It was Sharon’s birthday, so she asked if we’d come over for a little party.”

Steve’s mentioned their Aunty Sharon before, but between her and Sam Bucky hasn’t heard of Steve having any other real friends. It makes him feel almost sorry for the man, only his own friend’s list isn’t that long, either. Quality over quantity. “That sounds nice. I guess I should let you get the little ones inside, they look exhausted.”

Amelia pouts. “I’m not little,” she argues, “I’m seven now.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. Steve must not have shared. Bucky would have to put a pin in the pet snake idea. “Well, I take it all back,” Bucky says, hands up in a defensive gesture. “I should let you get the little and big ones inside.”

This placates her, and Amelia hops off the chair and lands with a thud. “Amelia, put your bike in the shed.” Steve instructs, and the pout deepens once more but she’s tired enough to do as she’s told. “Sorry, it’s been a big day for all of us. We’ll have to catch up soon.” Amelia’s ringing her bell repeatedly as she pushes the bike towards the shed, and Bucky laughs at Steve’s slow eye roll.

“No rush,” he answers, though Bucky really wants there to be a rush. Steve’s got the sort of responsibilities that he doesn’t. Bucky can put off nearly everything, except for feeding Sarge, and even then it’s not the absolute nightmare feeding children is. “We can wait until next weekend.” When there’s a look of faint confusion on Steve’s face, Bucky clarifies: “for my birthday?”

Then Amelia’s yelling, “ _birthday!_ ” and sprinting back over to them, basically clawing up the fence. “Is it your birthday, Bucky?”

He wants to answer with something sarcastic - “ _good to see you again too, Amelia Sarah Rogers_ ” - but he doesn’t. It won’t make sense. Sarcasm always flies over their heads. “Next week it is.”

She spins to look up at her father, accusatory. “Now I’ve gotta make a birthday card _and_ give Bucky his Christmas one.” The way she places her hands on her hips makes it seem like she lives an incredibly difficult life, and this is just another in a long list of troubles she goes through. Bucky’s missed her.

“Don’t worry about that, now. I’ll see you around. You can give me both at once.”

“See? No problem,” Steve says to Amelia, patting her on the head. Emma fidgets once, then sighs heavily and goes back to sleep. “Yeah, I’ll be there. Sam said he knows a good place to go.”

Even if it means Bucky won’t see Steve for a week, he can wait for this: Steve, out of any kind of domestic setting. Steve, out at a bar for _his birthday_. It feels almost like he’ll be seeing the teacher out of school - unimaginable, yet exciting. Bucky’s aware of how sad it is (Natasha has already rubbed it in multiple times) but he will be glad for anything, at this point. Their hands brushing, bodies close together on the dance floor. Absence certainly made the heart fonder.

“Sure! And I’ll have to come grab all that weird food off you sometime, too.” Bucky says with a smirk, and Steve looks just a little embarrassed by that.

He adjusts Emma from one side to the other and bounces her when she starts to complain. “I’ll see you then, Buck.” Steve says, fond, as he drags himself, the kids, and an entire room’s worth of goods inside.

It feels good to be home.

—-

Natasha and Clint wisely choose a hotel for their stay, as opposed to occupying one of Bucky’s very many, very vacant floors. It’s also a good choice as the bar they’ve picked (well, Sam picked, because he seems to be the only one who _knows_ nightlife here) is a good half-hour walk from Bucky’s and Steve’s. Natasha and Clint can basically stumble down the block to get home, and Sam - Bucky doesn’t know where he lives. He’s actually never met the man before. But when he gets to the bar with Steve in tow, he buys Bucky a round and that’s good enough in his books.

They occupy a booth on the large main floor of the bar. There’s a stage set up opposite them, and some guys are doing a mic check and getting their instruments ready. It’s not the sort of club you’d get in the city, with the pounding music and grinding bodies, it’s much nicer. More relaxed.

It suits Bucky, because - though he went out shopping for something nice to wear that Steve hadn’t seen (Natasha had laughed at him the entire time) - all he came up with were some new jeans and a shirt. It seems like the memo reached everyone, because they’re all dressed in that odd place between fancy going out clothes and casual dinner with friends. Except for Natasha, who - true to her style - has gone above and beyond in a skin-tight cocktail dress that glitters in the lowlight. And Steve. Steve still looks like a dad, but Bucky’s come to realise that the dad thing is not the worst.

It’s the opposite of that, actually, which is probably not a good thing to think, but that’s a problem for another time. For now, Bucky’s living off of a supply of free drinks and debating, loudly, the merits of his career.

“Yeah, but do you actually make a lotta money doing this?” Sam’s asking, gesturing with his beer in the process. He was talking with his hands more earlier, before something occupied them. Bucky has to admire his commitment to animated speech.

“Well, not _lots_ ,” Bucky begins to explain. Natasha snorts, mostly because she likes to be a pain in his ass. “Alright, I’m not on _your_ kinda money, but no one _really_ is.”

“What do you do?” Steve asks, looking a lot steadier than Bucky expected. Steve’s been going drink for drink with Bucky, who feels like he’s probably not qualified to stay upright under his own strength much longer. What’re birthdays for, if not that?

Natasha smiles around the glass of wine she’s drinking, having pointedly ordered the most expensive bottle off the menu for the sake of it. “I can’t tell you that,” she answers, turning her head off to the side as if their conversation bores them. “It does pay better than renovating houses, but I guess you meet less people.”

At that she sends a pointed look at Bucky and one of those dangerously polite smiles of hers. So maybe he got drunk and talked, at length, about Steve being his cute neighbour on New Year’s Eve. They really couldn’t deny that he was, at this point, fashion choices aside. They’d just be outright lying.

Before Bucky can say something - before he can _think_ of something to say - Natasha is softening her smile at the edges and turning to address Steve directly. “And what do you do?”

Steve blushes under Natasha’s gaze, and Bucky can’t help the jealous way he kicks her under the table. It’s his birthday, he’ll be petty if he wants to. “Uh. Contract stuff. Getting them ready for signing and - stuff like that.” Steve is far less eloquent than Bucky expects, which is reassuring. He’s not the lightest weight here. That’d be embarrassing.

“Sounds very exciting,” Natasha answers, and it’s not even sarcastic - surprisingly for her. Steve laughs at her comment as if she was. “What sort of contracts?”

“Military,” Steve says around another mouthful of the beers Clint bought this time. They’re some strange craft brand he obnoxiously picked out of the fridge. “When I was discharged, they let me hang around ‘n keep working.”

That piques Clint’s interest, too - he’s been talking to Sam about something or other. Bucky hasn’t really been following. Maybe he is too drunk for this - and it’s only 11pm. How embarrassing. 21-year-old him would be mortified.

“You served?” Clint asks, leaning both elbows on the table.

Steve nods, then gestures with a thumb to Sam. “So did he.”

“Army?” Natasha asks, and is met with a “yup,” from Steve and a, “hell no,” from Sam.

All eyes turn to Sam - Bucky’s included, because he’s pretty curious about how this guy and Steve met, if not through their mutual service. “Air force,” Sam clarifies, and Clint and Natasha both make noises of understanding.

“So how’d you meet, then?” Bucky decides to throw his hat in the ring, and Steve looks at him with an odd expression. Has he missed part of the conversation where they already covered that topic? Bucky doesn’t think he’s _that_ drunk, but then Steve’s turning that odd look onto Sam.

Sam simply gives a shrug in response. “You can tell. I don’t care.”

It makes it seem like some big secret. Bucky’s mind immediately leaps to something like the two of them dating, but then - Steve’s a widow. He keeps forgetting that because he’s too busy thinking about how much he likes Steve, and it always pops up to remind him at the worst possible times. Fuck.

“Uh. Sam was my counsellor,” Steve doesn’t look thrilled to be sharing the story, but he does so anyway. So it is personal. Not a big secret - Bucky’s sure lots of guys have seen stuff in their time that needed sharing - but still. He can see why Steve would want to hide it. “Now he just counsels me for free when I don’t want it.”

“Shut up, you love it,” Sam claps down a hand on Steve’s shoulder harder than he probably means to and pushes himself upright. “I’m going to the bar. Anyone want anything?”

Bucky, being the almost 31-year-old adult that he is, raises his hand. “I’ll come help,” he offers, also standing up, but using the table to do so.

Natasha has already started interrogating Steve about his time in the army, and Bucky instructs her, in a not-so-subtle way, to “be _nice_ ,” which gets waved off along with him.

Now that the band has started to play in the corner, people are leaving the bar to go and join the dance floor. Their style of music is definitely more pub-rock - a lot of stuff Bucky likes, actually - so the people who are dancing are mostly just jumping around, yelling the lyrics to the covers they recognise and pretending to enjoy the band’s originals when they crop up.

“Y’know,” Sam says, leaning on the bar while they wait for their order. Bucky’s ordered water. “Steve likes you, I think.”

Bucky makes a point of trying _not_ to blush, but his body misses that memo. “What makes you say that?” He asks, aiming to look as cool as Sam does as he leans against the bar.

“For one, he doesn’t wanna say a _word_ to me about you, so that’s alarm bells right there.” Bucky, at that, must looked suitably shocked, because Sam laughs loudly. “Not about you, about him. He’s been real closed off since Peggy died, so it’s nice for him to show interest in someone.”

Bucky stands and stares at Sam for a long moment. Show interest? Bucky’s not sure that’s the right word for it. Though - Steve does text him most days. And Bucky’s clawed his way out of the protective dad routine side of things.

Also, Peggy? Steve hasn’t said a word about his dead wife - huge shocker there - but Bucky hasn’t even had a name to put to the woman until now. Peggy. It’s cute.

He’s been silent for too long. Their drinks arrive, and Bucky clears his throat, still searching for something to say. “I like him, too.” Sam hasn’t been overly specific about what kind of like it is, and Bucky’s not going to clarify either.

There’s no need for him to do so anyway, not when Sam’s giving him this knowing smile - kinda like the one Natasha had been giving him every time she caught him texting while he was home for the winter. Stupid, meddling best friends.

“Good,” Sam answers, when their drinks arrive, and he’s dividing them up amongst their collective hands. “I guess this is where I have to give the mandatory, ‘ _if you hurt him, I_ _’ll kill you_ ’ talk. But I think you already know what that entails.”

Bucky gapes, and Sam raises an eyebrow. He’s pretty built. Bucky isn’t willing to take his chances. “Yes, sir.” He answers smartly, saluting with one bottle of beer to his forehead.

He didn’t have plans on ever hurting Steve anyway - Bucky wanted to help him take away that thinly veiled sadness that lurked back there, the one that came out in those moments Bucky had been lucky enough to help him with. He wanted to be that person.

Not that now’s the time for deeply considering his romantic future.

When they’re back at the table, Natasha is trying to arm wrestle Steve and is putting up an admirable showing of it. Steve is taking it easy on her - or, at least, that’s Bucky’s assumption given the smug smile Steve turns on him when he finally puts her out of her misery. Nat is looking annoyed and impressed in equal measure, and Clint is laughing at the pair of them as she lines up for round two. Sam rolls his eyes, leaning over to Bucky to whisper, “show off,” in his ear (though it’s more a normal volume, given the music in the place is making it hard to communicate at a level below shouting).

The entire thing somehow turns into a round-robin arm-wrestling competition. Bucky may have muscles but they’re not from going to the gym or working out, just from his work, so he gets eliminated fairly quickly. He’s certainly not sulking, but Steve drapes an arm across his shoulder when they have to watch Sam and Natasha compete, and it definitely brings his mood up. Not that it was down to begin with, it’s just that having Steve’s warmth around him would improve any mood, that’s all.

It comes down to a Steve versus Sam final, and Natasha is absolutely overjoyed as she forces them into a best of three when Sam takes the first round. Poor Steve probably spends all day with kids hanging off his arms (scratch that, Steve _definitely_ spends all day like that), so he’s at a disadvantage there. His muscles must be permanently exhausted. Steve goes down again in the second round, and declines the challenge of best three of five, instead offering to buy Sam the next drink.

Clint’s turned his attention to Sam and is squeezing his bicep as if he’s never seen a muscle before in his life. Natasha is also fawning, but in an entirely different way. Bucky can’t hear their conversation, but he’s sure she’s trying to gauge how much force Sam would need to kill someone with his bare hands or something of that nature. She’s pretty terrifying.

Which leaves Steve and Bucky sitting on their side of the table, each with their drinks, watching the whole thing play out. “I think Sam likes your friends,” Steve announces against Bucky’s ear, his mouth so close that it sends a shiver straight down Bucky’s spine.

He turns to reply, mouth close enough that he could almost press a kiss to the skin below Steve’s ear. He’s way too drunk to be this close to the most attractive man he’s seen in his life. God damn it. “Do you like them?”

Steve smiles, the way he does at Amelia and Emma, looking truly happy. Bucky blushes under that gaze, but he’s hoping the lights hide it. “’Course I do.” Steve answers, as though it’s that simple. “They’re friends with you, so they gotta be alright.”

“Sam must be used to putting up with bullshit, huh?” Bucky says with a laugh, and Steve’s pushing him jokingly in response. Bucky nearly tumbles to the floor, because, okay, his balance is lacking at present, and the same hand Steve’s pushed him with is holding onto his shirt to keep him in place. Bucky feels like a ragdoll, but he has no complaints. Steve could throw him around as much as he wanted, and Bucky would just thank him.

“You’re a smartass, Barnes.”

Bucky shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

“Complaints about what?” Sam’s asking, drawn from his bragging session by part of what they’re saying. Bucky must be louder than he thought.

“I’ve got complaints about him,” Natasha intervenes primly, and then she’s off on a tangent about this _one time_ when they went out and Bucky ditched her for some guy. The tale gets more and more dramatic, despite Bucky’s best attempts to intervene and set the story straight. It goes from the reality of Nat telling him to go talk to that cute guy at the bar to a sordid tale of betrayal, of how she had to walk home fifty miles in the freezing cold and pitch black without a jacket while he laughed at her from a penthouse like some heartless monster.

Clint’s laughing the whole way through, because he also happened to be there (including when, after Bucky left, the two of them ordered an Uber home). Sam is looking at him in mock horror, as though Bucky is the worst person in the world, and Steve’s just looking between all parties involved with an oddly serene expression. Maybe he’s not even listening at this point.

“You’re the one who told me to talk to him,” Bucky gets out, when Nat’s finished her exaggerated retelling of the night Bucky Barnes left her for dead. “You’re the one who told me to _go home with him_.” He adds, petulantly.

She waves her hand dismissively in the air. “Details.”

Bucky snorts, and Steve’s turned to look at him with a strange curiousity. “Yeah?” Bucky asks, because he’s not sure what that expression means.

“Nothing,” Steve replies too quickly, colouring and turning to look at his drink.

Sam glares at Steve, and Bucky can feel the kick under the table because instead of reaching Steve’s shins, it collides with Bucky’s chair legs. “Hey!” Bucky protests, and Natasha makes a show of kicking _him_ then. “It’s my birthday,” he whines, but no one seems to care.

There’s a moment of intense conversation conducted via eye contact next to him, Sam kicking again - more accurately this time - while Clint and Natasha are discussing something between themselves that no one else is privy to.

“Are you gay?” Sam asks, and Steve immediately snaps his head up and yells, “Sam!” They look at each other again, and Steve, after a moment, returns to glaring at his drink.

“Me?” Bucky asks, and god, has that got Natasha and Clint’s attention back. Sam nods his head, and Steve makes a noise like he’s dying. Bucky’s not sure what that’s about. “Uh, yeah. Not fully, mind you, but a good - eighty percent.”

“Jesus Christ,” Nat is saying as she gets up to go back to the bar.

Steve is looking at him, again with that weird expression. “Is that - alright?” Bucky asks, turning to look between Sam and Steve. Steve’s never given him any vibes that he’s homophobic, but he’s also lived a fairly traditional, heterosexual life. Finding out his hot neighbour was a homophobe would be the quickest way to kill his (inappropriate at best, he’s a _widow, Bucky_ ) crush on the man, so maybe it’s not the worst that could happen.

“Steve wanted to know-”

“I did _not_!”

“- if you were gay or not. And now we know. Problem solved.” Sam is starting to remind Bucky a lot of Natasha, and it’s not necessarily in a good way. More of a terrifying way. Steve has told Bucky a little bit about Sam, and after finding out the man was a counsellor, Bucky had been expecting something… different. Someone kinder, softer.

“Even if I wasn’t, I’d still make an exception for a guy like you,” Bucky says it with that joking lilt, but he’s dead fucking serious. Someone like Steve would turn a lot of guys. Just to get hands on that chest - Bucky would do some horrible things. But that’s not what tonight is about. It’s his birthday. They’re friends, hanging out, definitely not flirting with one another. Not at all. Steve might hate him now.

Steve looks more embarrassed. Sam is quickly distracted by Natasha and Clint again, this time with gestures that look either like mimed ways to kill someone or what they’re going to do to this incredibly awkward conversation. Bucky doesn’t want to know.

He figures he should put Steve out of his misery and leans over. “It’s really okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Steve insists, staring now into the pit of his drink as if it might show him the mercy of swallowing him alive. “It’s private.”

Maybe for some people, that sort of thing is. Bucky’s never really been much of a closed-off kinda guy in any sense, and romantic endeavours are no different. Bucky can’t help it that men are a lot more attractive to him, but he’s had his moments - Natasha, for one, who never let him live down his crush. It could well be that Bucky likes the concept of people who could kill him with their bare hands. Adrenaline junky, or something like that.

“Well, you can always ask me questions like that, if you want.” Bucky’s been that guy for plenty of people before - yes, he is able to explain how it works, and will do so in more detail than any heterosexual man really desires if it’s requested of him. The look of absolute mortification brings him delight in many cases.

Steve looks like he might be considering it. Bucky doesn’t want to traumatise him. He’s got enough on his plate. Nonetheless, Steve makes a noise before asking, “so, you’ve dated - both?”

Bucky wants to laugh at how sheepish Steve is. It’s like he’s never even danced with a girl in his life. This man was not only married but fathered two children. Was he raised in some ultraconservative family? “Yeah. It’s really the same thing. I mean - different parts to work with, but mostly the same.” Bucky waves a hand lazily, as if it’s no big deal, though he forgets he has a half-drunk beer in it and manages to slosh some on himself.

“Right. I’ve never-,” Steve flails a little, like he’s in the deep end of the pool.

Bucky laughs loudly. “I’m not coming onto you. Not unless you want me to.”

If it was possible for Steve, already bright red, to blush more, that’s what just happened. To save himself from dying of embarrassment, Bucky suspects, Steve changes subject. “How was it, being back home?”

It’s like Steve knows the trick to get Bucky talking. Especially when he’s drunk - he doesn’t shut up normally, but this is a whole other level.

Bucky tells Steve about Christmas, describes in detail the spread they had (he’d sent pictures, but nothing does them justice like tasting, and Bucky’s got the time and imagination to describe the flavours imbued in each dish by Winifred Barnes) and the gifts. He talks about how he taught Liam to ride a skateboard - flicks out his phone to show off pictures of Bucky holding his hands on the tiny plastic board, then a photo of Bucky only just managing to fit both his giant feet on the child-sized toy - recounting with laughter how they’d both fallen onto the freezing ground.

There was the day he went shopping with Becca and their mother and just wound up being packhorse for the day, and a few of the weird jobs he’d done with his father. Now that Liam was old enough to be entrusted to Bucky for an entire day, they’d visited the Brooklyn Children’s Museum and played loudly with every exhibit. Bucky had just as much fun as his nephew had, he suspects, and he describes to Steve his favourite exhibit: the sensory wall, with all the different materials to touch and smell and hear.

Steve asks heaps of questions - particularly about Liam, because he must be one of those people who loves all children, not just his own - and Bucky forgets he’s out at a bar to go drinking and dancing for his birthday. They’re turned to each other, knee to knee, in their own little bubble.

Bucky’s rudely reminded it’s not just them in the universe when Natasha leans over and waves a hand between the two of them.

“Huh?” Bucky answers smartly, and Clint mocks him - Sam starts to laugh. Assholes. It’s his birthday.

“We’re going to go,” Nat repeats, purposefully slow, and Bucky slaps her hand away. “Sam lives around the corner from where we’re staying, so we’re going to get him home safe.”

Bucky wants to protest their early leaving, but Steve’s leg is still warm against his, and he’s made no indication he’s ready to go. “Alright,” Bucky answers after a moment. “I’ll text you about tomorrow.” Since they made the trip up, Natasha and Clint plan to stay the entirety of Sunday and leave early on Monday. Bucky has plans for birthday breakfast tomorrow, though depending on how well he pulls up it might become breakfast lunch or dinner instead.

“Sounds good,” Natasha says with a smile, and then they’re all going through the motions of goodbyes: hugs and handshakes and it goes on too long when they forget they’re in the process of leaving and start arguing about whether the remix of Queen’s _We Will Rock You_ playing is a sin or not. Bucky refuses to see any other point of view, but he’s something of a purist when it comes to rock. Finally, the three of them depart, and that’s it.

Now that it’s just the two of them left, Bucky turns to Steve. Since their conversation got jarred from its flow, he’s trying to come up with something to suggest. The reason he’d wanted to go out to begin with was to go dancing - it had been one of his favourite things to do when he was younger, going out all weekend to get drunk and dance. Bucky wasn’t exclusive to the grinding that people in the club called dancing, either - he’d be just as happy going to proper partner dance nights, back when he was working in the city and dating around.

 “Wanna dance?” He suggests with a bit of a silly smile, and Steve looks taken aback. Plenty of people are already dancing, their bodies massed on the dance floor. The band has long since finished, the tone of the music shifting from rock to club. Bucky hadn’t even noticed the shift in atmosphere - he’d been too consumed by Steve.

Steve, with an awkward glance around them, shrugs one shoulder. “I guess so. I don’t know how to dance, though.” As Steve admits it, his cheeks colour faintly again. Poor guy finally got his complexion under control after Sam’s embarrassment. Bucky has to hold his hand back from touching those pink cheeks and leaching some of the heat away.

“C’mon, I’ll teach you,” Bucky says, grabbing Steve’s hand before he can stop himself and pulling the other man towards the dance floor.

Steve is definitely capable of breaking Bucky’s hold on a normal day, let alone when Bucky is drunk, so he’s pleased to feel Steve following along behind him obediently. Bucky takes them both to a spot on the dance floor with no one else too close, turning to face Steve.

It’s not the time or place for it, but the thought takes hold and doesn’t let go. Bucky places his other hand on Steve’s waist, pulling him in closer, still grinning like a fool. Perhaps this is his only chance to have this, and Bucky can’t help but indulge himself. If Steve says no he’ll obviously - sadly - respect that, but he’s hoping that the good mood might inspire Steve, usually so tightly wound with concern for his children, to let go a little.

Steve’s blush darkens, if that was at all possible, and he fidgets. “Are you actually teaching me to dance?” He yells, the music even louder here.

“You said you didn’t know how,” Bucky answers, leaning in so he doesn’t need to raise his voice. “Put your hand on my shoulder, it’ll be fun.”

There’s hesitation from Steve, then he’s carefully placing his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. For someone who massive hands, Steve is surprisingly gentle. “Just follow me,” Bucky instructs, and draws up the memories he had from learning to dance in school.

It wasn’t cool, but Bucky had definitely enjoyed his dance classes. They were optional after sophomore year, so Bucky had dropped them because he was in with the sort of crowd that picked on guys who danced (which makes him shudder in hindsight, but if you don’t regret your teenage years, did you even properly live them?). They’d learned a lot of basic partner dances, as well as some more interpretive type stuff.

Steve, for all the work he has obviously put into his body, has no coordination. He spends a few songs stepping the wrong way or treading on Bucky’s feet, which Bucky can’t feel now but will definitely notice in the morning. It’s hopelessly endearing, how bad he is, because Steve seems like the kind of guy who has it all when you look from the outside in.

Finally, the find some kind of rhythm. Bucky’s sure people think he looks like an idiot, because this is hardly the time or place for it: it’s some ambiguous time past midnight, the music is loud and the bass rattles through his body, he should _definitely_ be making his way to his bed, but -

This is too nice.

Steve is close enough to him that Bucky can feel the warmth of his body. Once he’s figured out the pattern to their movements, Steve laughs - Bucky doesn’t hear it, but he sees it, the way Steve looks down and smiles.

Bucky’s drunk and brave, so he leans into Steve’s ear again, not losing the rhythm. “Having fun?”

Steve looks up at Bucky through his eyelashes, and that look snatches the breath from his body. “I always wanted to learn how to dance,” Steve admits, words warm against Bucky’s ear as he fumbles a step and leads them the wrong way.

“You’re welcome,” Bucky answers, pulling Steve in closer so they’re hip to hip, and it’s not a dance so much as it is a sway they devolve into.

His heart is pounding, Steve is right against him, and Bucky’s thinking of doing something really stupid - it is his birthday now, after all, so he can make a wish, can’t he?

Then someone’s roughly moving past them, throwing a shoulder against Steve’s and separating them. The kid who does it - because, to Bucky, he is a kid, probably barely twenty-one - sneers at the two of them. “Get that shit outta here,” he says, and Steve’s face changes from this light, open expression to one of dark, barely contained anger. It’s like flipping a switch and going from this soft, kind person to one who looks ready to take things outside - and from what Steve’s told him, that’s not too far out of the realm of possibility.

“What the fuck?” Steve demands, shoving the kid back.

Out of nowhere, two friends materialise, and they’re all in some stand-off. Bucky’s never been one for this kind of thing - he’s not built for fighting, not at all. Though he was the type to chase after the fights and watch, rapt, during school, he’s much more of a pacifist.

“You heard me!” The leader of the little gang yells back, getting up in Steve’s face. He’s gotta be drunk. No one in their right mind would have the balls to get up in Steve’s face. He’s got a couple inches on this kid, not to mention a thousand pounds of extra muscle.

Steve leans in, and Bucky’s honestly a little turned on by this. Is it weird to find Steve attractive when he looks ready to throw a punch? “You gonna make me leave, kid?” And Steve shoves him again, hard enough that he stumbles into someone else and their drink falls victim to the feud.

Which, of course, attracts the attention of the bouncers and then all five of them are left outside in the lingering cold of winter.

Steve has a hand on Bucky’s lower back, which he thinks is a protective thing his body is certainly interpreting it in a different way. The shiver Bucky feels is not from the cold weather, not entirely. The kid and his posse haven’t moved, lingering a few paces from the bouncer on the door. They’re all talking angrily together, which Bucky isn’t hugely fond of.

He turns and looks up at Steve. “Let’s go home,” Bucky suggests, waiting for Steve’s approval.

He’s wound up tighter than Bucky’s ever seen, in a different way to normal, this furious energy coursing through him. Bucky wants to relax his jaw for him, because Steve’s going to crack some teeth if he carries on that way.

“Right,” Steve says after a long time, stuck in limbo, and then they head off.

Or, they’re in the process of heading off, when the tallest of the three boys comes up and punches Steve straight in the nose.

Steve stumbles and so Bucky does too, the hand sliding from Bucky’s back and raising defensively.

Bucky turns to look back at the bouncers, who clearly have the same level of object permanence as a baby, employing the ‘ _if I can_ _’t see it, it’s not my problem_ ’ strategy.

By the time he completes the second-long glance, Steve is already swinging.

“Hey, cut it out!” Bucky yells, figuring he has to end this himself. Steve’s not likely to quietly talk things out, and neither are the drunk kids who had the guts to try and fight him.

Bucky steps into the fray, but he’s rudely shoved back by someone. Some yells, “ _fuck off_ ,” and Bucky thinks it’s _Steve_ of all people. Steve’s drunk, but he’s also got experience with fighting - that Bucky knows for a fact. And if he hadn’t known it before, he’d know it now.

The kid who threw the first punch dodges Steve’s initial swing, but he’s not so lucky on the second. It makes contact with his temple and he’s sagging against the brick wall, eyes rolling back into his head. The one with the smart mouth isn’t as good as his friend - probably doesn’t help that he’s so drunk he takes a swing and misses Steve entirely - and Steve catches him on the way past with an elbow to the back of his head. He falls to the ground near Bucky’s feet, and Bucky takes a surprised step back. His plan to stop this has quickly been diverted as Steve is ending the fight with surprising efficiency. The third person doesn’t even seem like he wants to be there, with his drunk, vacant stare, and Steve grabs him and throws him to the ground with the rest of his friends.

All in all, the fight lasts a minute - one of the boys is knocked out cold, slumped against a wall, and the other two are looking a lot worse for wear. They’re trying to look angry as they lick their wounds, and Bucky puts a hand on Steve’s forearm to stop him permanently ending their fight.

There’s blood running out of Steve’s nose, and Bucky can already spy a black eye forming, which wouldn’t look out of place on Steve’s permanently tired face. There’s another trickle of blood coming from one of his cheeks where a stray fist must have split the skin, and his lip sports a matching cut.

Steve’s panting, fists clenched tight, glaring daggers as the boys drag their mate upright and pull him away. As they go, they yell insults back - the sort of dumb shit you’d expect from kids barely legal, homophobic slurs Bucky pays no mind to.

Although Bucky is ignoring them, he’s almost afraid of Steve, who’s holding himself so tightly he’s shaking.

“Steve, you’re - you’re bleeding.” Bucky says, letting go of Steve’s arm and coming to look at his face front-on. He pulls the other man under a streetlight, inspecting the new bruises and the split lip he’s sporting. “Shit, we should go to the hospital - you might have a concussion or something.”

Steve laughs suddenly, holding the back of his hand up to his nose and inspecting the red blood on it. “I’m not concussed, Buck,” he says, and he sounds almost - relieved, grateful for the brief scuffle. His voice sounds the way Bucky had felt coming home and seeing the Roger’s family there.

“You don’t _know_ that,” Bucky insist, hands looking desperately for something to stop the bleeding.

Steve just unbuttons his shirt and slips out of it, holding it up to his nose, sighing around the fabric bunched up near his face. “I know how a concussion feels, Bucky. I’ve had lots of them.”

Bucky fidgets in place until Steve grabs his hand, and then he freezes. “We going?” He asks, and Bucky nods numbly.

“Yeah, alright,” Bucky breathes, holding onto Steve’s hand as they start walking. He doesn’t even know the way home, and he’s not sure that Steve does either, but he’s glad the other man’s leading the way.

Bucky’s still reeling, replaying the short confrontation in his head. There’s only a couple of strikes in the whole thing, and at the time it had felt like an eternity. Every time they’d hit Steve had physically pained Bucky, and though Steve insists he’s fine, Bucky’s not sure. His Ma’s always said he was a worrier.

They walk for about ten minutes without saying anything, Steve breathing through his mouth heavily.

“Sorry for ruining your night,” Steve says, nasal. He’s still holding Bucky’s hand, and Bucky has no intentions on letting go if Steve doesn’t.

Bucky wants to laugh or cry or something. “You didn’t ruin anything, Steve,” Bucky says, squeezing Steve’s hand in response. “I’m really glad you came. I’m just sorry you got hurt.”

Steve laughs around the bandage he’s made, casting his eye up to the dark, cloudy sky. “It’s been a while. Feels good.”

“What, beating up some assholes?” Bucky thinks he’s being sarcastic, but Steve just nods his head as if it was a sincere question.

Bucky shakes his head, which partially hides his fond smile. “You’re something else, Steve Rogers.”

Steve pulls away the shirt from his face, dabbing at his nose with a finger to see if the bleeding’s stopped. “You’re pretty special yourself, James.”

Bucky scoffs, elbowing Steve in the side without letting his hand go. “You’re a punk.”

Steve squeezes his hand extra tight. “Jerk.”

—

When they get back to Bucky’s house, Steve looks at him with an unreadable expression. “Could I stay with you?” Steve asks, and Bucky’s brain is already providing an enthusiastic _yes_. “Sharon stayed with the girls, I don’t want them to see,” Steve gestures with the bloodied shirt at his just as bloody face.

“Of course,” Bucky says, letting go of Steve’s hand to fumble for his keys in his pocket. There’s no porch light at his place, and he spends a horrible amount of time jabbing his key in the dark until he finally gets the door unlocked.

Inside, the house is cold and empty. Bucky’s not surprised, but he suddenly feels embarrassed at how he lives. Sarge whines and quietly wanders out to look at them, before retreating to his bed again. They’re not worth his time - they don’t have food. “Let me clean you up,” Bucky insists as he guides Steve through the winding maze of the house.

The bathroom he’s proud of, at least, as he puts the seat down on the toilet and points at it. Steve goes make an argument, and Bucky cuts him off with a glare.

“I’m fine, Buck,” Steve protests as he sits down, holding onto the bloody shirt on his lap.

Bucky keeps glaring. “Don’t move,” he demands, disappearing to grab a bin. No amount of laundry will save the shirt in Steve’s hands, so it may as well go to a better place. While he’s out, Bucky also grabs the first aid kit from in his bedroom. He’s not exactly qualified to do much beyond putting a bandage on someone, but it makes him seem more professional.

When Bucky returns to the bathroom, he’s both pleased and shocked to find Steve hasn’t moved. He’s looking around with polite interest, turning and smiling at Bucky when he comes back. Under the bright lights of Bucky’s bathroom, he looks even worse: his nose is swollen, his right eye bruising, and his bottom lip has a nice split straight down the middle.

“It looks nice in here,” Steve says, sounding somewhat vague.

“Thanks,” Bucky responds, and now that he’s taken on the role of somewhat responsible adult in the situation, he feels more sober than he did when his hips were pressed to Steve’s and they were dancing like nothing else in the world existed.

He holds out the bin, and Steve obediently drops the shirt into it with a wet _thud_. Bucky wrinkles his nose at it.

“I’m going to - clean this up,” Bucky says, waving a hand at Steve’s face as a whole.

Steve still looks way too satisfied with himself as Bucky runs the water hot and plugs the sink. He gets a washcloth and dampens it, slowly dabbing at the dried blood on Steve’s face. “Tell me if it hurts,” Bucky instructs as he goes, and Steve just hums, eyes closed. He looks almost content, despite the occasional, pained twitch.

Bucky’s extra gentle around the cut on Steve’s cheek, careful not to dislodge the blood that’s congealed there, and does the same with his lip. It’s ridiculous how this only makes Steve look more attractive - like the alternate badass universe version of normal, Dad-Steve.

“You’ve got nice hands,” Steve remarks, as Bucky’s rinsing out the cloth. He probes at his lip with his tongue curiously, hand reaching up to press along his nose.

“You’ve got a nice face,” Bucky counters, and it makes no sense because Steve wasn’t insulting him to begin with - and his comeback is hardly a comeback. “I don’t like that you tried to ruin it.”

When he’s done at the sink, Bucky returns with a rinsed cloth and starts to dab at Steve’s skin again. Steve’s watching him through his lashes, eyes half-closed, and Bucky can’t look at them too long or he’ll lose focus.

“Thanks for teaching me how to dance,” Steve says as Bucky takes his chin and gently turns it up to clean along Steve’s throat.

Bucky freezes, hand still on Steve’s chin. “You’re welcome,” he answers, voice slightly strangled. “You’re a good partner.”

Bucky is treated to one of the happiest smiles he’s ever seen on Steve’s face directed towards someone who isn’t a blood relation of his. He feels stuck in place, unable to move, because this isn’t _quite_ how he’d imagined things going but this is definitely part of a fantasy he’s rehearsed before. The two of them, close, position somewhat compromising - and then, Bucky takes the lead, says something that makes Steve swoon, and they go for it.

Only he doesn’t have the words to say to make Steve do anything close to swoon. Bucky looks more like a fish out of water than the charmer he thought himself to be prior to meeting one Steve Rogers. It’s Steve, actually, who grabs Bucky’s shirt in his fist and leans up to kiss him like it’s no big deal at all.

It takes Bucky a few seconds to transition from gaping to kissing Steve back. The other man tastes like beer and blood, which are two things that wouldn’t previously have rated high on Bucky’s scale for kissing partners, but they suddenly do. They’re both drunk and it’s sloppy, as many first kisses are, the sudden plunge into getting to know someone in such an intimate way. Bucky turns his head and knocks Steve’s nose - tastes the pained hiss, mumbles a, “sorry,” into Steve’s teeth.

Bucky’s usually the one in control of these sorts of things. He lays on the moves, closes the gaps, but Steve is taking charge here in a surprising - and incredibly attractive - way. He’s tugging Bucky forward until he’s basically straddling his lap, Steve’s other hand is cupping the back of Bucky’s neck.

The skin of Steve’s chest is warm, and Bucky treats himself, gripping his hips tight so he doesn’t slide off. Also, he’s been wanting to feel those muscles for a long time, and the teasing touch he drags across Steve’s stomach is the greatest gift he’s ever received. Happy birthday indeed.

When the kiss reaches a natural conclusion, they part, foreheads touching, breath mingling. Bucky can taste Steve, the tang of his blood and the warm background tone that’s distinctly _him_. Bucky’s close enough to touch Steve’s lips again with the slightest movement, this time pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth, avoiding the split.

Steve’s hands are on Bucky’s lower back, his shirt rucked up, warm fingers squeezing him. Bucky can feel from where he sits that he’s not the only one enjoying this, and grinds his hips against Steve’s. The noise Steve makes - this low, heady moan - pulls Bucky right back in and he’s kissing Steve so hard he forces his back up against the cistern. Making out on the toilet is not how he expected to ring in his birthday, but Bucky’s got no complaints about it at all. Steve’s hands are climbing higher up his back, and Bucky wants to ask him to rip the shirt off, just because that movement alone would undoubtedly bring him to orgasm. Bucky’s unashamedly rolling his hips against Steve’s in drunken rhythm, which is to say no rhythm at all, the sounds they make trapped between their mouths - a gift just for each other.

Bucky’s never felt so strongly about someone in his entire life. He’s never taken someone home after a night out and wanted anything more than a single evening with them, but with Steve it feels like making him a one-night stand would do a great disservice to the kind of person he is.

This time Bucky pulls back, sitting up, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Is this okay?” Bucky asks, because he can’t help it - he’s a good person. Despite Steve being the initiator here, he can’t help but recall why he never made a move earlier. Steve’s widowed with two children. Bucky might not want him to be a notch on his bedpost, but does Bucky want to get a family out of this?

Steve blinks slowly at him, then lifts a hand to his cheek. Bucky sighs at the softness of it, Steve’s huge, calloused hands remarkably gentle on his skin. “Yeah,” Steve answers, though it sounds like a question more than anything. His thumb is sweeping a line across Bucky’s cheekbone, back and forth. “Sorry, I -,” he continues, but doesn’t seem to have a destination in mind.

“Don’t be sorry,” Bucky insists, and he can tell his body is mad at his betrayal - he could be experiencing the greatest sex of his life right now, but he can’t ignore the guilt. “I like you. A lot.”

Bucky’s words seem to surprise Steve - his thumb twitches on Bucky’s skin. Steve lets out a sound, far from the pleased noises he’d made earlier, more like he’s experiencing an unwelcome surprise. “I’m sorry,” Steve repeats, and this time it’s not the beginning of a longer sentence, it’s the entire statement. Bucky’s heart breaks, just a little. “I don’t know if I can - do this.”

Bucky isn’t sure what this is - whether Steve means a quick fuck, or the potential that Bucky likes him and might want to pursue it further. Being drunk dulls the pain of it, and Bucky’s sure his brain will be quick to remind him of this tomorrow. And every night for the rest of his life. He musters up a smile and stands, stumbles, missing the warmth immediately. “We should get some sleep,” Bucky suggests, and Steve stands somewhat unsteadily to follow him.

The bathroom gets left in its disarray, a problem for future-Bucky who will not be very impressed at all at drunk-Bucky. His bedroom is not overly spectacular, and he should feel ashamed, but he doesn’t. “Pick a side,” Bucky instructs Steve, disappearing to get two glasses of water and some pre-emptive painkillers. There’s no bedside table to put them on, as Bucky has a futon on the floor so it would be futile anyway, so he lays the glasses and pills on the floor by the bed.

Steve’s wasted no time getting comfortable, his clothes discarded on the floor. Bucky can’t help but think about that as he strips down and changes into sleep pants, sliding in beside the other man. The double futon is hardly enough room for a person of Steve’s stature if they were sleeping alone, and Bucky ends up without the option of keeping any personal space. Not that Steve gives him that option anyway - the other man is rolling over and pulling Bucky against him, spooning him like he hadn’t just told Bucky a relatively clear “ _no_ _”_ five minutes ago.

Drunk-Bucky is all about giving future-Bucky more things to dwell anxiously on, so he only sighs and snuggles back into the embrace.

“G’night, Buck,” Steve mumbles, close to his ear, the shiver down Bucky’s spine just another kick while he’s down.

Bucky lays a hand over Steve’s, holding him close. “Night, Steve.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a lot to say here.  
> 1\. this is my favourite chapter because I wanted something healthy and responsible for Steve and I hope this feels like a good progression in his character development! I hate fics where the healing comes from someone else. Steve and his family deserve a nice cleanse.  
> 2\. I joined twitter, I'm [@_cydonic](https://twitter.com/_cydonic), feel free to come and yell at me that'd be cool! I like talking to people!  
> 3\. I finished my school reports today, five days early, which means I can spend those five days wrapping up what is sure to be the last 20k of this stupidly long fic.  
> 4\. thank you again to all of the comments! Seriously, it makes me so happy I just had no idea people could be so kind! 😭
> 
> anyway in celebration of my finishing something before the deadline (👀) and this being a chapter I desperately wanted to share with you all, it's here slightly earlier than I had planned (insomuch as I have planned anything to do with this fic)!

Steve awakens too early to be human, which is likely the reaction he’d have regardless of the actual time. He rolls back and nearly rolls _out_ of the bed, realising belatedly that this is not his home. The body next to his is not normally there, despite his sleepy brain being convinced that this was just a regular morning, and Steve takes a second to enjoy the silence. Bucky is sound asleep at his side, curled up, his back pressed against Steve’s front.

His nose is throbbing, which reminds Steve of all that happened last night - including when he foolishly leaned down and kissed Bucky. It had been _amazing_ , and that wasn’t just his drunk brain talking. Bucky was warm and responsive, a constantly moving bundle of energy despite the late hour and the time spent drinking. Prior to that he’d been a steadfast nurse, carefully working over Steve’s wounds with a damp towel.

And Steve had told him no.

That thought alone makes him wish he was dead, and the hangover isn’t actually helping.

It wasn’t that Steve didn’t want Bucky - he wanted Bucky terribly, and that was the problem. Where Steve lives is on top of a mountain of unresolved issues: their basement is full of boxes of anything that reminded him of Peggy, taped up and hid away so Steve could avoid the part of the grieving process that actually allowed him to move on. He’s got two kids, and Bucky’s in town for another six months tops. It would be stupid to start anything, what with Steve’s baggage and Bucky’s lack of permanency.

That’s the thing that sucks about adulthood. You have to make decisions that don’t give you what you want. You have to be the mature, sensible one. Steve can’t risk introducing Amelia and Emma to someone as a part of their life and have that person up and leave - another reason why he’s been so reluctant to date.

With great care, Steve tries to roll over without disrupting Bucky - impossible to do, but the other man merely makes an annoyed noise and goes back to sleep. Thank god for that. Steve’s used to living with kids who can hear you breathe too heavily from three rooms away.

He looks for his phone, which has been dumped haphazardly by the bed along with everything except his underwear. Steve can’t remember whether he’s the one who set out the glasses of water, or Bucky is, but he’s immensely grateful for them now that he feels like he’s spent an entire year in the desert without even a drop of water.

The water stings the split in his lip, so there’s another thing he has to be mindful of. As exhilarating as it is, being in the middle of something like a fight, the aftermath is never fun. Probably some of his pounding headache comes from the hits he took.

Steve carefully drains the water, then replaces the glass on the ground and picks up his phone. There’s not a lot going on there - it’s after 9am, which is definitely a sleep-in. Or would be, had Steve not been up hours past his usual bedtime.

 _From Sharon: Hope last night went well! I_ _’m going to take the girls out for the day so you can recover in peace._

Steve is reminded, as he often is, of just how lucky he is to know Sharon Carter. There’s been nothing linking them together since Peggy died, with the exception of Amelia’s blood, but the woman has hung around and been a greater help than anyone Steve could imagine. It’s like she knows he’s hungover and having a crisis, because she’s got the girls out of the house so Steve can clean himself up and maybe start to make sense of the mess he’s put himself in.

 _To Sharon: Thank you!! It was a big night. I_ _’ll speak to you when you get back._

When Steve drags himself upright, he’s painfully reminded of what he did last night, head lurching for a moment before it gets its bearings. Bucky is still asleep, snoring faintly and taking up all of the space in the bed now that he can.

With great care, Steve sneaks out into the bathroom (with a few wrong turns along the way), relieves himself, and looks at his reflection critically. It’s not the worst his face has ever been, but it’s certainly not good. He’s going to have to explain to the girls what happened - well, just Amelia, really. Steve’s reluctant to do so because he doesn’t want to go giving her any ideas.

Bucky did a good job cleaning him up, though, and all that remains on his face is the stuff that needs time and patience to heal: bruises and cuts. Steve prods at his nose again, feeling for any spots where it may be broken, but it’s just swollen and bruised. Lucky.

When Steve returns to the room, Bucky is awake (barely) and glaring at the ceiling. It takes him a while to turn and look at Steve, eyes soft and sleepy. Maybe Bucky doesn’t remember what happened. Steve smiles back, feeling less solid about it. He lowers himself to the edge of the futon to dress, pulling last night’s clothes in closer.

“Good morning,” Bucky croaks pathetically, then pulls a pillow over his head.

Steve smiles, dragging his pants on. He looks for his shirt before recalling the fate that befell it. “Happy birthday,” Steve answers, sounding just as miserable but more hydrated, if nothing else.

So he’s doing some kind of walk of shame, sneaking back into his own house shirtless and with a beat-up face. Bucky moans again, and Steve picks up his phone to see if Sharon’s replied.

There’s nothing from her, but there is from Sam.

 _From Sam: I came over with breakfast but you_ _’re not here????_ 👀

Shit.

Steve must have told Sam at some point to come over - or, the other man just decided to and now he’s in this situation. No use lying about it, because Steve planned on going to Sam for help anyway. He’s been pestering Steve to move on for years, and maybe now’s the time Steve’s going to indulge him.

 _To Sam: I stayed at Bucky_ _’s. I’ll be back in a minute._

The only response Steve gets is multiple eye emojis in a row. Well, he’s in for it now.

“I told Sam we’d do breakfast, so I gotta go,” Steve says, aiming for gentle, the way he talks to Amelia the first time he goes in to wake her up in the morning. Any subsequent times are less calm and more yelling.. “Do you need anything?”

Bucky makes a gesture that might be shaking his head, but it’s hard to tell under the pillow. “No, thank you. I’ll come lock the door in a minute.”

That doesn’t sound promising, but they live in a good enough neighbourhood that Steve isn’t overly concerned. Besides, what could they steal from Bucky? Anything is either fixed to the house, or the futon he’s sleeping on. “Alright. Take care,” Steve says as he stands up, patting his pockets to check that he has his keys before leaving himself outside Bucky’s house with nowhere to go.

Sarge doesn’t even look up at him as Steve passes, and he manages to lock Bucky’s front door behind him so the other man doesn’t get stolen. Steve is rather fond of Bucky at this point, and him going missing, though unlikely, would just be disappointing.

Sam’s waiting on Steve’s porch, and his look morphs from amused to horrified to just confused.

“What the _actual_ fuck, Steve?” Sam asks when Steve’s close. He muscles past the other man to unlock the door, not wanting any of his other neighbours to see. “Did you and Bucky get in a punch up or something?” Sam continues to pry, following hot on Steve’s heels into the privacy of his home which is ideal for interrogation.

“No, we didn’t,” Steve says, and he goes to rub his eyes in frustration before realising that’s a bad idea and stopping himself. It’s been a while since he had to be considerate of a black eye. “It’s a long story.”

Sam looks at him like he’s an idiot. “And I’ve got breakfast,” Sam holds up the bags of pastries in his hands. “So sit, and tell me all about it.”

Steve wants to tell him no, but he has to do it. Just because it’s uncomfortable, doesn’t mean he should continue to avoid the problem. Avoidance has been Steve’s approach for four years now, and it’s clearly not working. “Okay,” Steve acquiesces, “just let me get changed first.”

Sam does allow him five minutes to change into something more comfortable and covered, make coffee, but then it’s time to spill. Sam’s leaning across the table, elbows down, hands holding his chin, like a child playing at innocence. He’s seen Amelia make that exact face at this exact table before when she was asking for a pet snake.

“So, after we left…,” Sam prompts, waiting literally on the edge of his seat to hear the tale.

“Bucky asked if I’d dance with him,” Steve can already see Sam ready to interrupt, and holds his hand up. “I said yes. We danced. Then some assholes shoved past us, started yelling at us, so I shoved them. Then we got kicked out.” A snort from Sam, who leans back to sip at his coffee, satisfied he’s getting the full story. “We got outside, and one of them tried to be a smartass and take me down. _I_ wasn’t picking a fight with anyone. They picked it with me.”

“Isn’t the always the way?” Sam says in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t believe Steve is an innocent party in this. Sam didn’t even _know_ Steve at the peak of his street fighting days. He’d been much worse.

“Shut up,” Steve grumbles, pausing to peel off part of a croissant and eat it. “So after that, Bucky and I walked home. I asked if I could stay at his-,” Sam starts to laugh, and Steve raises his voice to be heard over it, “-so that Amelia wouldn’t see me like this.” Steve waves a hand at his face.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Sure. You know she’s going to see it anyway.”

“Yeah, but I’ll be sober enough to explain it to her, at least,” Steve replies, somewhat abruptly because _hey_ , he’s trying to have an awkward conversation and Sam’s just making it harder. “Do you want to hear the story or not?” Steve asks, and Sam immediately shuts up, miming the action of sealing his lips.

“Right. So, we got inside, and Bucky’s cleaning up my face, and…,” Steve told himself he wasn’t going to be stupid and blush but he’s doing it, and Sam _must_ know what’s going on, the bastard. “I may have kissed him.”

“ _May have_?” Sam echoes, incredulous.

Steve does put his face in his hands now, despite the black eye. “I kissed him.” He repeats, honestly, and it doesn’t feel as freeing as he thought it would to admit that.

“So…?” Sam draws the word out long. “What’s the problem?”

The problem is - the problem is Bucky saying he likes Steve. That makes it hard to turn off the fact that _he_ likes Bucky, to ignore those feelings and just indulge himself in the one night he could have safely had. He wouldn’t have had to dig up the bones of the past he’s kept buried for so many years. Steve could’ve enjoyed himself, been assured it would’ve never worked anyway, and moved on with his life. Moving on is what he’s good at, after all.

Steve sighs. He’s been quiet too long, picking at the soft, buttery pastry in his hands. “He said he liked me, Sam.”

“Do you like him?” Steve can recognise the shift from friendly questioning to counsellor inquiries. This is it. Sam can sense a touchy subject coming a mile away, and he adjusts to it.

“Yeah,” Steve answers, voice small. “I do, but…”

“But?”

“He doesn’t know a thing about me, Sam. He doesn’t know about - Peggy,” just saying her name still hurts, makes his throat close up a little, “or Emma, anything like that.”

Sam shrugs, like this is as significant as tripping over a crack in the pavement: a minor inconvenience, nothing more. “You could tell him.”

“I need to clean out the basement.” Steve’s been thinking of this for a while, since Bucky moved in and made Steve realise he was still a human being who _wanted_ to share his life with someone. That was impossible with the literal and figurative baggage that made up the foundation of both his life and home.

The satisfaction on Sam’s face should be scary, but it’s not. It feels like it’s going to be a painful process, but worthwhile. “I’ll help you.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course,” Sam says, reaching across the table to grab one of Steve’s hands, holding it tight. “You know I will. I haven’t been forcing you because I wanted you to get here in your own time, but I’ve been waiting to help you for years now.”

Steve smiles down at the table, and if it’s a little watery around the edges, Sam doesn’t comment. “How did I get so lucky?”

“By having plenty of issues, Rogers,” Sam says, with a parting squeeze before leaning back. “Drink up, and talk - is he a good kisser?”

—

Sam and Steve both work weekdays, so they aren’t able to get into the basement until the next weekend. Steve spends an entire Monday to Friday work week in conflicting moods: part of him is dreading the adventure into his past, the other excited for the future it might herald. He also spends quite a lot of his time studiously avoiding the topic of  _why_ his face looks like that, because he doesn't want to go giving Amelia any ideas. She already takes after Steve in more ways than one - this isn't a trait he wants her to inherit. He can start to feel a deep sympathy for his poor mother at the mere thought of Amelia growing up like him, scuffing her shoes on the floor of the Headmaster's office, proclaiming, “ _they deserved it,”_  as if it makes the situation alright.

On Saturday, Sharon is busy working, so Amelia goes to a sleepover at her new friend Morgan’s place. Steve’s met her parents; Pepper, her mother, is funny and kind and extraordinarily organised. Morgan’s father is very odd - Steve never caught his name - but he seems friendly, if a little eccentric. Emma is still small enough that she won’t cause too many problems, and she’s grown out of her constant grizzling phase. She’s almost one now, and the main thing they need to watch out for is her attempts at standing which could bring a stack of boxes down on top of her. They start the morning off with Emma contentedly playing with blocks, stacking them up and knocking them over. It’s her new favourite thing.

The basement is a dark, shadowy place, made worse by the looming spectre of cardboard boxes everywhere. Steve doesn’t know where to begin. Sam does - he grabs the first box he can, brings it down, and opens it up.

It, like many others, is filled with clothes. Peggy wasn’t necessarily into fashion, but she certainly liked dressing up. Steve doesn’t have the heart to go through the box, instead just relegating the whole thing to the donation pile. Someone else might get joy out of the things she’s worn. It’s not worth his grief to pick each one up, to remember how the fabric felt over her body, to catch her scent dampened under that of stale, stored clothing.

Sam helps Steve lug five boxes of clothing, shoes, and accessories upstairs, and places them by the door. That task, alone, feels mammoth. Steve isn’t just walking upstairs with a box of jeans and sweaters, but with the weight of all the memories. Peggy had worn these. They had been picked by her and had touched her skin almost as intimately as Steve had.

Once the clothing is cleared out, it’s a huge relief. Two stacks have already been removed. Steve feels buoyed by the ease of that task; the grief manageable enough that he gets cocky.

The next box they open contains only one article of clothing, and it’s Peggy’s wedding dress.

Steve looks at it and feels numb. It doesn’t look the same, crammed into four, solid, cardboard walls, but it still carries the thoughts with it: the fluffy tulle and the soft satin, the hand-beaded top and the white ribbon that laced it all together. Steve can feel Sam watching him, but he doesn’t register much beyond that. He reaches out and gently caresses the fabric, remembers how it had gone so smoothly under his palm as he held her for their first dance.

He’s reminded, too, of dancing with Bucky, and it makes him feel sick.

“Steve,” Sam’s saying, gently, his hand on the lip of the cardboard. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Steve hasn’t noticed that the dress is fisted in his hand, the tulle almost scratchy. How had Peggy worn this all day? It must have been uncomfortable - and the box weighs a tonne. “I-,” Steve attempts, but the word comes out choked and high. He’s going to cry. It was inevitable, but he tries to blink the tears back anyway. “I’m just… remembering.”

“Good memories?” Sam prompts, and now he’s slowly trying to leech the tension from his fist, trying to ease it. His knuckles are still faintly bruised from last weekend.

Steve blinks, and instead of achieving his goal of holding the tears back, they sneak out. “Yeah,” he mumbles, letting Sam pull his hand away. “It was - a good day.”

To say it’s a good day is to discredit the magic of the entire affair. They’d both had to compromise on what they’d wanted: Peggy had wanted something different, a forest wedding, somewhere wild and isolated – Steve had had his heart set on a beautiful church with stained glass and manicured gardens. What they’d gotten in the end was an old church, an abandoned relic from a time long gone, set in the middle of an apple orchard during autumn. Steve can vividly remember, now, how the leaves crunched underfoot and the air smelt warm and inviting. They’d wandered the orchard all afternoon, a photographer shadowing them and catching their most intimate moments. The photos would be somewhere, too, amongst all these memories.

Steve reaches a hand down into the box, feeling for Peggy’s shoes. They’re tucked away down there, under the ivory layers. “I can’t throw it out,” Steve says, and this is how he got into the mess in the first place: couldn’t face the memories, couldn’t dispose of them. All he could do was hide them away and hope for the best.

“So let’s keep it,” Sam’s talking, still in that even, calm tone. “What if we save it for Amelia? When she grows up, she can wear it or alter it. A lot of brides do that.”

Steve knows the suggestion comes from a good place - Sam not wanting Peggy’s things to linger just so Steve can dwell on them more - but the thought of Amelia in the gown makes him cry all over again. Peggy would be so proud of her, if she could see her walk down the aisle. Even in another gown - hell, even in a _sack_ \- she’d be proud.

“Steve, hey.” Sam’s coming around to sit beside him, pulling his arms around Steve, letting him cry against his neck. Sam’s a good friend, Steve registers belatedly. He wishes he’d known the man back when he’d been married. Sam would make the best best man. “I know it’s hard, buddy. You’re doing really well. This is going to help you so much.”

Steve lets himself cry and Sam just holds onto him, until Emma starts to cry and Steve is forced to disentangle himself from the other man. “I’ll get a, uh - a dress bag or something. We’ll put it in her closet.” Steve can’t make eye contact, instead picking Emma up and disappearing upstairs to change her.

When he comes back, Emma now fed and clothed, Sam has moved the wedding dress upstairs and has pulled down some different boxes. Steve sets Emma up in a mechanical chair, one that slowly moves her from side to side and plays a little lullaby. With any luck, she’ll drop off to sleep soon and leave them to work without interruption.

The next two boxes are full to the brim with documents. There’s no rhyme or reason to it - Steve can remember himself, deep in the mourning process, taking anything with Peggy’s name and pushing it into the box. Now he’s paying for it: there’s insurance documents and doctors notes, letters from home and junk mail addressed to her. None of it has ever been useful since her passing - unless you counted the life insurance policy and her will, but they’d served their purpose. As Steve continues to dig, he realises just how much he’s shoved into one place: receipts and invoices and some Republican propaganda sent for the 2012 presidential election.

“We should go through and get out the important stuff. Birth certificate, passport - if it’s in there. Just in case. Everything else we can shred.” Steve balks at the job ahead, but it’s got to be done. They grab a garbage bag from upstairs and start to sort the papers.

That’s the most time-consuming part of the day - throwing away all the shit Steve boxed up. He should have done this years ago, and not let it hold him back for so long, but when has he ever made good decisions?

Well, except for Peggy. She was the best one.

It takes hours, and a lunch break, for the job to be done. In the end, the pile with Peggy’s most important documents is only a few sheets of paper thick. Turns out, when you’re gone, your life really can be condensed down to hardly anything. It’s oddly humbling. Steve slides it all into a manila folder and puts it away in the safe, alongside the girls’ birth certificates and other important documents. It’s the perfect fit.

Sam drags Steve’s shredder downstairs - a mandatory item in any government employee household - and starts the slow process of destroying it all. Steve spends some time playing with Emma, who’s just up from her nap and very cranky about it all. There seems to be nothing that soothes her: she doesn’t want to eat or drink, doesn’t need changing, and her favourite toys just make her grumble. After a while, Steve just leaves her with a few sheets of paper scrunched into balls and she pushes them around the floor. So long as she’s not crying, it’s a good thing.

“There’s not a whole lot left,” Sam says, once the shredding is done and there are four boxes stacked up against the wall. There are some furniture items in the basement, too, things Peggy had bought with her. Steve’s going to donate them, too.

Sharon, who is much more emotionally stable than Steve, had asked for the things she wanted before Steve had panicked and boxed up an entire life to leave in his basement. She hadn’t asked for much, and Steve had been happy to indulge her: just family jewellery and some specific photos. Even though she has what she asked for, Steve still texts her images of the armchair and bookshelf he plans on donating to Goodwill, just in case she wants another heirloom.

“You don’t have to hang around. It’s getting late.” Steve’s voice feels hollow, especially now in the empty basement. He’s almost numb to everything now, and he’s not sure he wants Sam around for the last few boxes. Since they’ve yet to come across them, Steve knows what he’s going to find: photos, mostly, and all the small knick-knacks Peggy had cherished.

Sam looks like he knows exactly why Steve wants him to leave, and Steve watches the internal debate play out on his features. “I can come back tomorrow, and we can finish it all off,” Sam says, and it’s less an offer, more a promise.

Steve doesn’t know if he even has it in himself to open up any more boxes, but he nods his agreement - he’s too tired to argue.

He gathers little Emma out of her rocker, her sleepy eyes flickering as she’s moved, and then walks Sam out to his car. He hasn’t seen or heard from Bucky since last weekend - Steve supposes he can’t really blame the man, can he? Steve’s the one who ruined things. Soon he’ll be able to go to Bucky, with a clearer mind and home, and talk about the things that had plagued him when he foolishly pulled the other man down to kiss him.

For now, he’s hugging Sam goodbye, holding on longer than necessary, and then going to lay down with Emma and feel the life in her little body, the way her pulse continues relentlessly on as she sleeps.

—

The next day, Steve texts Sam and asks him not to come around. It’s not a decision he’s making lightly, because he knows Sam is the voice of reason he needs, but Steve - he wants to do this. He wants to prove that he’s capable of doing something. This is his battle, not Sam’s, and he wants to be making at least a token effort. Besides, Amelia needs picking up from Morgan’s house at midday and having Sam over as well is just going to be - too much. Steve still feels raw from the previous day, and he wears sunglasses despite the cloudy day as he drops all the clothing into the donation bins outside Goodwill.

With that job done, Steve - still teary-eyed under the sunglasses, but who can tell? - goes to the small clothing alteration store at the mall. He’s too lazy to get the stroller out, so he just balances Emma on his hip as he goes in. It’s not like he’s going shopping - it should be an in and out venture.

It’s just after eleven, and Steve’s _that guy_ waiting for them to open. The lone man working seems surprised that Steve doesn’t want any actual alterations done, he just wants to purchase a garment bag large enough for a wedding gown. Steve has to mime with his hands how far out it goes so he gets one the right size. Peggy might not have wanted a traditional, floor-length gown, but she certainly indulged in the layers of tulle to make it spring out from her hips and twirl around her calves. While he’s there, Steve purchases a clear box for the shoes and tries his best to smile when he’s wished, “congratulations,” by the tailor.

Both items get placed in the trunk of his car, Emma back in her car seat, and then Steve goes collect Amelia. When they arrive, Morgan’s dad answers the door, and Steve manages a brief conversation with him. Tony, he introduces himself as, and _did Steve know that Amelia was a very mechanically minded girl?_

If Steve wasn’t a tender thing, a healing wound, he’d probably indulge in the conversation with delight. There’s nothing in life he likes to talk about quite like his children. Tony, through some miracle, halts himself mid-conversation and bids Steve a prompt farewell. Steve’s not sure if it’s his lack of response or something in Tony’s head that’s inspired him to make that decision, but Steve just blinks vacantly at the closed door in front of him for a moment too long.

“Are we going home?” Amelia prompts, pillow under one hand, backpack hanging off her other shoulder.

Steve nods and ruffles her hair, Amelia’s protest bringing a smile to his face for the first time that day.

—

They get home and it’s lunchtime all around. Amelia either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about the boxes stacked up in the living room. She sits and eats her grilled cheese, watches _Teen Titans_ and is generally happy about life. Steve feeds Emma on the lounge, staring through the television screen and neglecting the sandwich he made himself. As a parent, he’s used to eating food gone cold, so when his appetite returns it won’t be too much of a pain to force it down.

It takes two episodes of the show for Amelia to finish eating, and another for her to start investigating the boxes. All of them are sealed save one, the one with the wedding dress in it. Amelia’s not the sort of person to ask for permission, instead just opening the cardboard and poking her head inside. Steve has to stop himself from jumping to his feet and telling her to get out, instead clenching his mug of coffee (also gone cold from that morning) tighter in his hands.

“What’s this?” Amelia asks, soon enough, after plenty of grabbing at the full skirt of her mother’s wedding dress.

Steve swallows the sudden (though expected) lump in his throat. “That’s your mom’s wedding dress,” he says, in a small, tight voice. Amelia likely notices - kids are good at picking up on emotions - but she doesn’t mention it.

She frowns in confusion, looking between Steve and the box. “Why’s it here?”

The lump is persistent, and Steve’s lungs have also decided to work at 10% of their usual capacity. “It’s - we’re cleaning out some of her stuff. And I thought you might like to keep her dress, for when you’re a bit bigger.”

“Am I getting married?” Amelia asks, still clearly baffled, and Steve can’t help but laugh. He lays Emma down on the floor - though she won’t stay there for long, now that she’s learning how to pull herself upright and stumble around - and goes to crouch beside his daughter.

“Not yet. But when you get older, you might want to get married, and you can wear this. Or you can wear it whenever you want,” Steve can’t help thinking that he never wants Amelia to get married, but not because no person would ever be good enough for her. He does think that, surely every father does, but… he can’t stop the thought that if Amelia’s married, she’ll somehow wind up like him: broken to the foundations, having to pick the pieces up. That, or she’ll follow in her mother’s footsteps -

It’s a stupid, irrational fear, but Steve can’t keep the image from his mind. His little girl hurt in any way is enough to push him to two extremes: rage and grief. She doesn’t deserve to live through what he has, and Steve wonders idly if his mother ever thought that for him. She’d lost her husband young, too - Steve had barely known him. Perhaps they were cursed.

“Why are you crying?” Amelia asks, the confusion turned to concern.

Steve sniffles, and tries to wipe his tears away. Amelia grabs a tissue from the box on the coffee table and returns, holding it out to him. Emma, seeing her sister’s actions, pulls herself up and tries to snatch the tissue box too.

“Daddy, why are you sad?” Amelia presses the tissue to his face, not really achieving anything. It’s still sweet, and Steve wraps his arms around her and squeezes tight enough to get a surprised yelp. He pulls Amelia down to the floor, tucking her under his chin, just holding on.

She’s laughing and pushing at him with all the strength her little muscles can summon, which is nothing to Steve. “ _Dad_ , stop it,” she giggles, as he peppers her head with kisses.

“I’m not sad. They’re happy tears. I’m remembering how Mommy was.” Steve doesn’t believe in lying to his children, but he’s trying to convince himself of this, too.

After a few more kisses and some tickling scattered in for good measure, Amelia’s released from Steve’s grasp. Her face is pink from all her squealed laughter, and she sits on her bottom and stares at him. “What’s in the other boxes?” Amelia asks, curiosity clearly sated on the contents of at least one box.

Before Steve answers he turns and grabs Emma, who is now attempting to climb on top of the coffee table, and wrangles her into his arms despite her complaints. “Some more of Mom’s stuff.”

Amelia lights up like a kid on Christmas. “Can we open them?”

Steve is envious of her excitement. All that’s in there is a sad reminder of what he’s lost, but for Amelia, it’s a glimpse into what she never had. Peggy had passed when she was only three years old. She’s spent more of her life without Peggy than she did with.

Perhaps there’s something to be learned from that optimism, though. Steve nods his head and goes to grab a pair of scissors. It takes some work to hack open the packing tape he used to hold everything in, as if the more tightly he wrapped the boxes, the less likely the memories would seep out through the gaps and linger in his mind. It hadn’t quite worked as planned, had it? Steve now has the strength to cut through the layers, and within minutes the first box is open. He lifts it down from the top of the stack and places it on the floor where they can both look.

Amelia’s the one to peel back the cardboard flaps. Inside is piles of newspaper-wrapped items. The confused look returns, and Steve leans forward to pick up a rectangle. It must be a photo, he reasons, as he pulls the newspaper off and shows Amelia. The newspaper is not the important part - what’s inside is.

“It’s like pass the parcel,” Amelia says, taking the photo from Steve’s hands and looking at it.

This must be the wedding box. Just his luck. Amelia’s tracing her fingers over Peggy’s face in profile: red lips, quirked just _so_ with a secret Steve was never privy to, eyes crinkled at the corners. Steve wonders what she thought about, in that moment. What was she looking at, to make her smile like that? Looking at the side-view, Steve can recreate an image of Peggy like that in her mind - can taste her on his lips, almost.

“Mommy was really pretty,” Amelia says after a long time, one finger chasing a loose curl that hugged Peggy’s jaw.

Steve can’t argue with that. “She was beautiful. Just like you.”

Amelia beams as she places the photo down, carefully putting the stand up so it’s upright on the carpet. Emma is scrunching up the newspaper in Steve’s lap, so she’s currently no threat to the glass in the frame.

Slowly, Amelia unwraps more. A lot are small photos from their wedding - two of them from behind, holding hands, walking through the orchard; a close-up of Peggy’s hand, the gold glinting in the sunlight; one of Steve’s hands on Peggy’s cheeks, his lips so close to hers that you couldn’t split the difference between them. At the last photo, Amelia scrunches her nose up and says, “ _ew_.”

“What’s _ew_ about that?”

“You’re kissing, Daddy. That’s gross.”

“I kiss you all the time,” Steve protests, and to prove his point he leans in and blows a huge raspberry on Amelia’s cheek.

She cackles as she tumbles back, knocking some of the frames over onto the carpet. They land, face-down, with a muted thud. Steve’s braced for broken glass, but there’s nothing: just the sounds of Amelia, still giggling in delight. Steve lets out the breath he doesn’t realise he’s holding.

From there, it gets easier.

They get all the wedding photos out, as well as the guestbook and a box with Peggy’s jewellery from the day in there. Steve lets Amelia wear the pearls around her neck, and they sag halfway down her small torso. Peggy’s beaded headband and veil slide into Amelia’s fair hair and shine in the afternoon sun - Steve watches as she prances around like a queen. There’s a moment where Amelia attempts to put on Peggy’s wedding shoes, but she clomps around for three paces before falling down so they get put away. Steve needs to get the garment bag and shoebox out of the trunk he remembers, belatedly, but it’s too late for that.

Amelia, in her little veil and necklace, is sitting next to him and demanding they open the next box.

This box is full of the things Peggy bought with her into their relationship. She hadn’t come with much, and a number of the photos had been claimed by Sharon, images of Peggy as a young girl and throughout her youth. Steve spots a medal from when she was in school (she played field hockey - there’s a team photo in there, too), and her A Level certificate. There’s a stack of re-read paperbacks, their front covers and spines creased from use, birthday and Christmas cards from an assortment of years, and some notebooks Peggy had written in. Steve never read them, and as much as he’s curious, he doesn’t plan to start now. It would feel like a violation of her privacy, even after death.

Amelia gladly rifles through it all, attempting to sound out some of the words in the books Peggy owned before giving up and putting them back in the box. She tries to read a page out of Peggy’s notebook, but doesn’t keep going long on that: Peggy’d always been interested in puzzles and codes, and Steve’s sure that if he was willing to read what she had written, he wouldn’t be able to decipher it. Part of Peggy had always been a mystery to him, and always would be, now.

In the bottom of that box is a few more pieces of paperwork that mustn’t have fit in with the others. It’s from her time in the British Army - nothing particularly coherent, just be some loose sheets of paper that got caught up in everything else. Though they’d met overseas, both deployed, once Peggy had been discharged and moved to the States, she’d never really kept anything as a memory of her time. This was almost all that remained of her time in service, and Steve contemplated keeping it before putting it on the coffee table. He’d shred it, like Sam had done with everything else. If Peggy hadn’t kept anything, it was for a reason.

“What’s that?” Amelia asks, popping her head up from playing with Peggy’s medal. It’s joined the string of pearls around her neck.

“Just some papers, nothing important.” Steve’s never told Amelia how he and Peggy met - it’s not exactly a romantic movie kind of meeting, so there wasn’t much point. They were deployed to the same area, and things escalated from there. It was love at first sight, at least for Steve.

Amelia lets the medal thunk against her chest, surrounded as she is now by remnants of a life lived. There are photos, some standing upright, others having fallen down - there’s books that naturally lay open, rather than closed, and a notebook Amelia’s attempted to understand. Eve with Steve’s hair and eyes, she’s a picture of her mother there, caught in the tempest of her memories.

Steve pulls over the final box, and it’s the fragments of their life together in no real semblance of order. As soon as he cuts the tape and peels it back, he can see that this was where he panicked: there’s a throw rug from the couch she’d bought, and her rain boots (she always called them Wellies, Steve never quite understood it); an umbrella, her handbag, house keys, and some more photos. The photos in this box are mostly ones that had been hanging up so long that Steve had almost forgotten they existed until the time of packing. That, or they were the ones that hurt the most: pictures of Peggy with Amelia, mostly, a timeline of her growth in the arms of her mother. This was the box of everything that remained, the little things that had broken Steve’s heart perhaps more than anything else. The daily reminders of what he’d lost.

Amelia’s diving headfirst into it - no surprise there - and is attempting to wear Peggy’s rainboots with arguably more success than when she tried to wear the high heels. Amelia clomps around on the floor, and Emma laughs and makes grabby hands at her big sister.

“Look, Daddy,” Amelia chimes, traipsing up to him and putting her hands on her hips. She makes such a sight, with her pearls and veil, shiny medal, and bright yellow rainboots on her feet. “Now I’m like Mommy.”

Steve smiles, and though it’s touched with sadness, it brings with it a sense of relief, too. “I guess you are, baby,” Steve answers, laying the photos - no newspaper, these were a last-minute addition - on the floor along with the others. Steve never thought they had a lot of photos but looking at them now - well… they do. Or did. Steve’s not sure.

Coming into this, Steve hadn’t made much of a plan. Now that he can see what he’s working with - years’ worth of memories - it’s even harder to decide what’s right. There are so many images, many of them without frames, just tossed in amongst the other belongings, that Steve can’t bring himself to dispose of them. There are also more in frames, and plenty of empty hooks around the house where they used to live. It feels empty without their presence, and Steve runs a hand down the largest frame of all: their first kiss as husband and wife, in the small safety of that ancient church, afternoon light filtering through the cracked stained glass.

“Listen, let’s -,” Steve starts, still fingering the gilt edges of the frame. “Let’s pick a couple of photos to keep. The rest we can put away.”

Amelia drops to her knees and shakes the large rainboots off, leaving them on their side by the couch. “Okay!” She chimes, and digs through each frame, weighing them up carefully.

After much deliberation, she settles on a picture of Peggy on their wedding day, looking down at her bouquet, lashes brushing her cheeks (”Don’t you want one of both of us?” “No, Dad, that’s weird.”). For Emma, she dutifully picks out an image from their first dance, and then another of them holding Amelia as a baby at her first birthday party (”That’s not Emma, that’s you.” “Yeah, but she can pretend like it’s her”).

Steve elects to keep the large image of their first kiss, standing up and dislodging Emma to go and return it to its rightful place in the hall outside their bedroom. There’s another photo in a frame, a candid of one of the first times the two of them were able to meet up outside of work, smiling at each other - entirely unaware of the photo being taken. That goes on his bedside table. He puts the ones Amelia picked in their rooms, carefully standing them up on a bedside table. Peggy can watch over the both of them.

When he comes back, Amelia has placed the rainboots on her hands and wrapped the throw around her neck, clapping the soles together at Emma. Her younger sister is sitting up and laughing delightedly, grabbing for the bright yellow every time they come close.

Steve lingers in the doorway, watching them, before remembering that this is it here - _this_ is what he’s living for. Not the memories of Peggy lurking in his basement, or the unknown future. He pulls out his phone and takes a photo - from the side you can see both girls’ joy, yellow gumboots stretched out mid-motion.

“What are we gonna do with the rest of this stuff, Daddy?” Amelia asks, still wearing her boots like gloves.

Steve’s feeling optimistic. He’s not much of an optimist, but he can feel that way now. It’s like the burden that’s been plaguing him is almost gone, the boulder starting to dislodge, gravity building momentum leading to the ending point. He’s almost manic with it, the sudden realisation that things _might_ be okay. That this might be that step he needs to take, away from failure, from grief, from heartbreak - the step towards something new.

“We’ll figure something out.”

—

In the end, Steve has to take the next day off work. He’s buzzing with energy. He arranges for the people at Goodwill to collect the armchair and bookshelf, too big to fit in Steve’s car. While Amelia’s at school, he and Emma go to Target and grab photo albums and print some things off his phone. He queues up all the images he’s taken: Amelia on her new bike, Emma at Christmas scrunching wrapping paper in her hands, Amelia’s silly rainboot hooves (so she called them), Emma with her hand stretched out to pat Sarge on the head.

When they get back, Steve helps load the furniture onto the trailer and waves off the thanks from the staff. He’s not doing it for them - not really. He’s doing it for himself, and for his kids.

Then he spends the rest of the afternoon studiously moving photos around. The old photos go into albums: a wedding album, a general photo album, and some go into the Peggy-established baby album. The existing frames, where they’re in good condition, get to hold something new: photos of Amelia and Emma, stills of their lives captured and saved. Steve arranges them through the house.

By school pick-up time, the house feels like a new place. Steve’s got one last bag for Goodwill - the blanket and some odds and ends he found while tidying - and their recycling bin is full of flattened boxes and shredded paper. The wedding dress has found a home in Amelia’s wardrobe, pearls and veil along with it, the shoes on the shelf above the hanging rail, safe in the plastic box.

_To Bucky: Are you free to come over for dinner sometime?_

Steve texts without thinking - he’s still on that high of an insurmountable task completed. He considers adding something to it, saying the girls miss him so it’s not just about Steve, but - he can’t help himself. He’s being selfish.

Bucky doesn’t answer for a few hours. Amelia goes through the house, finding the new photos like treasures on a hunt, smiling widely at each one. They eat dinner, and for the first time in a long time, Steve feels really, truly happy.

Until Bucky answers him.

 _From Bucky: Sorry, I_ _’m flat out. Fell super behind over winter. Maybe next time?_ 🙁

But Bucky’s a guy doing a job, and Steve is a reasonable human being, so he just answers with _no problem_ and lets it go.

—

It’s a week after Steve’s clean out, and though Bucky was the catalyst for it, he hasn’t yet been around. Steve, now that he’s thinking about it, has heard nothing but noise from next door since Bucky’s birthday. There’s a skip bin in his yard full to the brim of bricks and mortar, so it must be demolition time. Steve can remember the way Bucky’s eyes lit up when he spoke about it - he really loved smashing things, it would seem.

There’s another man there some days, too, his van parked in where Bucky’s ordinarily goes, the truck pulled up onto the grass to make space. The guy has long blonde hair and looks like he’d give Steve a run for his money if they met in an alley outside a nightclub. Steve hears his voice a lot, this loud, booming thing - in direct contrast to Bucky’s voice, which is much quieter and more level.

Steve tries not to dwell, but he can’t help himself.

“What if he hates me now?” Steve asks, phone to his cheek, laying on the couch.

“What if who hates you?” Sam replies, and Steve can hear his keyboard tapping away in the background. Normally he’d worry about bothering Sam at work, but he’s desperate now. He’ll take counselling if Sam’s willing to give it.

“Bucky.”

“Why would he hate you?” Sam doesn’t sound like he’s counselling Steve; he sounds like he thinks Steve is being deliberately difficult. Maybe he is.

Steve sighs. “I invited him over and he said he’s too busy. I keep trying to catch him, but he’s at work all the time. We go to the park, but nothing.” Steve’s well aware that he sounds like a lovesick teenager. He should be embarrassed, but Sam’s given him enough shit that Steve may as well live up to it.

“Have you stopped to consider that he might _actually_ be busy?” Sam asks, and Steve drapes a hand dramatically over his eyes.

“I think he hates me,” Steve groans.

It’s Sam’s turn to sigh. “Okay, so maybe he does hate you. He told me he liked you-”

“- _what?-_ ”

“-but that could change. Maybe you turning him down changed his mind.”

Steve groans again. “I didn’t mean to turn him down, I just meant-”

“-I know what you meant, Steve. But - no, just stop and listen to me for a second.” Steve pouts - not that Sam can see it. “Listen. Your basement is empty now, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How does that feel?”

There’s the counselling tone Steve had been waiting for. How does it feel? It feels - incredible. He feels like Atlas, like he’s shrugged the weight of the world off his shoulders. “It’s - really good.”

“Right.” Steve can feel that smug smile Sam gets sometimes when he’s about to prove just how right he is about something. “So even if Bucky hates you, does it matter? You got something good out of this, regardless of him.”

Steve shifts the arm on his face so he can dig into his eyes with his fingers. Sam has a point. This is a good thing for him. It’s just hard to see that, when it was merely the journey - the endpoint was Bucky, proving to him that Steve wasn’t just some strange, lonely mess. That he was a human being worthy of being loved by someone like him.

Love. It’s been a while since he thought of that, even as a distant possibility.

“You’re right,” Steve forces out, knowing he’ll feel better for acknowledging the thought. “It was worth it.” Not quite in the way Steve expected it to be, but worth it, nonetheless. He rolls over and removes his hand entirely, looking at the mantle: pictures of Amelia and Emma cover it. _Worth it_. “Thank you, Sam.”

“You’re welcome,” Sam says, and Steve can hear him tapping away at the keyboard again. “It’s fifty dollars per half-hour for a phone session.”

Steve snorts. “Have your people send the invoice to my people.”

“On it, Rogers,” Sam says, and then he hangs up.

He’s happy now. Steve’s home is filled with photos that make him happy. Amelia’s outside, working on her throw - Bucky’s still being diligent in his ball returns, if nothing else - and Emma’s down for her afternoon nap.

Things are good.

That is, until he hears a scream from outside.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise guess who was yelling it's not - for once - a child!  
> also no, you're not finding out about Emma this chapter (or the next), but you _will_ find out dw. 😘  
> thanks for all the kind comments, I love you all so very much 💕 this all wraps up on June 5th and I'm as excited as you are to see what actually happens lmao.

Bucky likes to think that when he goes to breakfast with Natasha and Clint that he’s not the completely open book that they make him out to be. Just because Natasha knows within five seconds of seeing his sulky self, doesn’t mean that he’s obvious about what happened with Steve. But Clint, who is the _least_ observant person, picks up on it too. There’s no getting out of the discussion then - he admits to them what had happened the night prior over their bacon and eggs, the thought of food and his rejection making his stomach turn.

“That’s a shame,” Natasha had remarked as she sipped at her coffee. “He was pretty cute.”

They did the hungover tour of town, and then the two of them packed up and returned home. It would’ve been easy for Bucky to let himself get lost in his thoughts and stay there, ruminating on where he’d gone wrong (Steve had kissed _him_ , how could he screw that up?), but he was a master at throwing himself into his work when things got hard.

Monday morning, Bucky booked a local electrician to come help him out. His grand plans of taking out several major walls was going into effect earlier than intended, but he needed a distraction.

Thor, the guy who came out, was funny and loud and liked Bucky’s music - he spoke with a heavy accent, and didn’t seem to know _any_ of the songs, so Bucky figured he’d only recently moved to America. Whatever the case was, Thor was good company and a better distraction. The pair of them worked dutifully for two weeks, Thor in on some days and off on others. He took out the wiring and replaced it as needed while Bucky took to the internal walls (the ones that he could safely remove without toppling the whole house down on him, he wasn’t an idiot) with all the aggravation he felt at stupidly falling for somebody he clearly couldn’t have.

By the end of the fortnight, the house felt bigger. There was no longer a laundry, but a larger master bedroom; the kitchen and dining room were now one, open space. All in all, Bucky was exhausted but satisfied.

Thor had not only helped him safely remove the wires from the unneeded parts of the wall, but he checked everything in the house and updated the old single adapters to doubles. He wired ethernet ports through the house and made sure that it would suit someone who wasn’t just a senior citizen but someone who actively lived their life aka. Someone who used the internet at least once in a blue moon.

With that task done - in record time, too, frustration made demolition works run a lot smoother, it seemed - Bucky had to pass time while the plaster dried. Part of him was also avoiding having to paint, which was arguably his least favourite job. He took to the exterior of the house, then, to clean away the years of mould and grime. Cleaning wasn’t a highlight of the job, either, but Bucky could put his speaker on the porch and get into it.

Cleaning the lower part of the house was easy enough. He circled it with a broom and a hose, scrubbing hard at the years of accumulated _yuck_ to try and dislodge it. If he had the time he’d probably paint the cladding again, to restore the clean white it must have been upon construction, but… painting. It might happen. Depended on how much Bucky hated himself by the time they reached that point.

Though the higher parts of the house - the ones out of reach while he stood on the ground - didn’t get as dirty, they were also much harder to clean. Sarge had to be firmly locked up, lest he send the ladder toppling to the ground, and Bucky was slowly making his way around the house again. It wasn’t too strenuous a job, just annoying, as his reach only extended so far when he was up on the top rungs of the ladder.

The sun’s shining warmly down on him, but the ground is still muddy from the spring showers that have been turning on and off at their leisure. Bucky’s determined to dislodge what must have once been a spider web but is now just gunk up under one of the gutters, when the ladder shifts precariously underfoot.

It should be stated, for the record, that this is not James Barnes’ first rodeo. He’s been up and down ladders since age seventeen, when he started working for his father, and leaning a little _too_ far beyond the safety recommendations is just par for the course in this business.

He leans back in with intention to stabilise, but one leg has already dug into the mud. Bucky has one heart-stopping moment of weightlessness as the ladder tips away, and then he’s falling.

Again, not his first rodeo - Bucky’s fallen before, and it fucking sucks every single time. There’s no chance to think of what to do, there’s just the eternity of the motion that is, in reality, a second at most.

Bucky slams into the ground, arm first, instinct sending it out to try and break his fall. He feels something break, but it’s certainly not his impact - his arm goes first, and Bucky feels the pain radiate through it, before his back meets the ground next. He slams into the wet earth with enough force to wind him, and he thinks he might have screamed but he can’t be sure. It’s hard to tell in the moment of contact, when everything is a blinding rush of pain.

The sensation reminds Bucky of stubbing his toe, only on a universally greater scale. He can’t breathe, and his body tries to roll around the injury as if it can protect it. There’s no noise that he can discern, just a loud ringing, and god, is he _dying_? It sure feels like he’s dying.

Slowly, awareness seeps back in - his eyes are clenched shut, which explains why everything’s a shade of blinding white, but Bucky doesn’t realise until something’s on his cheek that he’s basically closed off all his senses. How did he evolve to become this, paralysed from a fall a few feet off the ground? In survival of the fittest, he definitely would’ve been one of the first to go. They’d toss him to the lions, no doubt about it.

“Bucky, hey,” says the thing on his cheek, and Bucky’s just impressed he can hear beyond the ringing, beyond the sound of himself panting as he tries to get enough air in - it feels like an impossibility right now, with how tightly everything is held. “Can you open your eyes?”

Bucky wants to respond - something smart is the immediate thought, but he doesn’t have the brain power for being an asshole. He can barely force his body to keep breathing. It seems to have forgotten how to do so automatically, forcing him to drag the air through his mouth into lungs that are determined to stay closed off.

“Bucky, listen,” says the voice again, and Bucky can attach it to Steve - attach the warmth on his cheek to the other man as well. Slowly, slowly, he cracks his eyes open. He’s still winded, and he can’t see a damn thing with the tears in his eyes. Are his cheeks wet? He can’t tell. “You’ve had a fall. I’m going to call the ambulance. You’re going to be okay.”

“No,” Bucky manages, because the last thing he needs is an ambulance. He can’t afford that shit. He’s been going slower than normal, what with how he’s been constantly trying to spend time with Steve rather than do his job. He wishes he could lift his hand to push Steve’s away, but he’s enjoying the warmth too much to deprive himself of it. “Please don’t,” he croaks, trying to blink away the tears.

Steve’s hand moves, and Bucky’s eyelids flutter as he feels the other man gently wipe the tears away. “You need an ambulance, Buck, you’ve hurt yourself.” Steve insists, and Bucky’s finally able to make out the damp blur of the man in his sight. He’s crouched down in the dirt with him. That’s nice of him.

“Steve,” Bucky says, then stops to take a breath before continuing. “Please. I can’t. It’s - too much.”

Steve’s hand drifts from his cheek to his hair, and Bucky sighs. That’s always been his weak spot, a hand in his hair, and the way Steve soothingly strokes it is ridiculously calming. It’s almost like he has children he practices on or something. “At least let me take you to the hospital,” Steve eventually gives in, and Bucky’s not exactly in any position to compromise.

Finally, he picks up his right hand and scrubs the tears from his eyes fully, tracking mud onto his face. Christ. He’s a mess. “I can’t afford that,” Bucky gets the sentence out in one breath, but it’s strangled. “I’m fine.”

Steve laughs at him, and now that Bucky can see he’s able to spot Amelia’s worried head over the fence in the background. He can hear Sarge whining at the door. “You’re not fine. What’s hurt?”

That’s an easy question. Bucky can’t feel his arm for the pain - it’s the bright spot on the film of his body, overexposed and unidentifiable, blinding. “My arm.”

“Did you hurt anything else on the way down? Did you land just on your arm?”

Bucky doesn’t have the energy to answer all of Steve’s questions, but he does his best. “Just my arm.” He landed on his back, and it’s throbbing, but that was secondary. The only thing he can identify as still being actively _torturous_ is his left arm.

Fuck.

Just his luck, isn’t it, to go screwing himself up when he’s got a deadline.

“Okay, I’m going to take you to the hospital. I don’t want to hear any complaints.”

Bucky whines pathetically, and Steve ignores him.

“Amelia,” Steve’s turned around, and the girl looks sprung, dropping behind the fence until her name is called again. “Go inside. Pack your bag for Aunty Sharon’s house and come tell me if Emma wakes up.” He gives instructions like a man clearly skilled in delegating, and Bucky simply watches in his stupor.

With a quick, “okay!” Amelia is gone again, and Steve’s focus is back on Bucky. He likes that.

“We’re going to the hospital. I’m going to carry you to our car. What do I need to do with Sarge?” Steve somehow makes a load of instructions easier to swallow, and Bucky feels himself nod - wincing at his stiff neck. He needs a massage more than anything right now.

“Uhm,” Bucky begins, closing his eyes to better think. The bright light of the spring afternoon is bothering his headache. “Sarge needs food. Tie him up outside. He’ll be fine.”

“Alright,” Steve agrees, and Bucky’s almost forgotten there was a hand in his hair until Steve’s moving away. “I’m going to go pack some clothes for you, in case you need to change. Do you mind if I go through your things?”

On another occasion, Bucky might have tried to play at some coy secrecy, but he just shakes his head slightly to the side. “Go for it,” he says, aiming for humour but just sounding pained.

Steve nods, and then he’s shifting. He’s taking Bucky’s good hand, and gently bringing it over to his other. Bucky doesn’t feel when they make contact, just the sudden pain that makes him wince. “Sorry,” Steve’s saying quickly, but he’s not stopping. “Hold your hand for me. I’m going to pick you up, and this will hurt more if your arm’s loose.”

It’s not an instruction that Bucky has to actively think about, because Steve’s moulding his right hand to do what he wants.

Apparently satisfied, Bucky takes a second to breathe. It’s in that moment Steve deftly slides his hands beneath Bucky’s knees and back and lifts him off the ground. The broken arm - because Bucky’s sprained his wrist before and it doesn’t hurt nearly this bad - is cradled against Steve’s chest, held in (supposedly) by Bucky’s own hand.

“All good?” Steve asks, as if this isn’t one of Bucky’s dreams come true. Under any other condition, he’d be overjoyed to have Steve carrying him around. Right now, he’s moderately thrilled but also significantly in pain, so it’s a bit of a Catch 22.

Bucky croaks out a, “yeah,” and then they’re moving.

The whole trip seems to happen without Bucky really being present for it. Steve balances him half-upright as he unlocks Bucky’s gate, then as he does the same for his own. He yells out for Amelia to bring him his car keys, which she does, and then Bucky’s bundled up in the passenger seat. There’s a towel placed behind him and a blanket over his chest, and Bucky imagines Steve doesn’t need him tracking shit into his car on top of everything else.

“I’m going to get some stuff ready. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Bucky numbly goes to respond, but Steve is already gone. He thinks he should get up and try to help, but he feels exhausted now that the adrenaline’s starting to filter out of his body. He concentrates, instead, on what he can hear from his spot in Steve’s car. Sarge is whining, then barking loudly, his attempt at being scary when he’s really a big softie. Steve’s talking to Sarge, then Bucky hears his backdoor close before it opens again a few minutes later. His gate creaks shut - needs more oil. Amelia, for once, is silent, but Emma is crying - did Bucky disrupt her nap? She’s usually having a rest in the afternoon. The car doors open, which is closer than Bucky expected, and he jumps a little in place.

“Hi, Bucky,” Amelia says, quiet and timid, as she settles directly behind him.

Bucky tries to put on a brave face. “Hey, kid.”

“Did you hurt your arm?” She leans over the centre console, looking at him with keen eyes.

“Something like that,” Bucky responds, and then Steve’s insisting she buckle herself in.

“You doing alright, Buck?” Steve asks, and Bucky wants to cry. How is Steve so nice to him, still, after - what happened? After Bucky ruined whatever friendship they had been developing?

Bucky nods his head and closes his eyes. Dimly he registers Steve talking on the phone, but he’s given up on paying attention.

—

He drifts off, somewhere between Amelia’s interrogation of him and Steve snapping at her to, “ _leave him alone._ _”_ Bucky isn’t sure where they’re going - well, hospital, obviously - but it’s a bit of a drive. It’s easy to sit and stare blearily out the window, trying to ignore the pain in his arm. When he holds it perfectly still, it’s almost possible to forget about it but they’re in a car. Bucky knows the people in the area pay taxes but they sure as _hell_ aren’t going to keeping the roads maintained because he cringes more than once when they go over a pothole or uneven part of the road. Bucky doesn’t have the energy to tell Steve to stop apologising, and it’s actually kind of nice.

They pull into a parking lot, and Steve’s back on his phone, exiting the car and looking around. He can’t hear anything from the backseat - Amelia clearly took her father’s instructions and listened to them for a change. That’s odd.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to return, this time with a blonde woman. Bucky only figures out who she is by Amelia’s excited cry of, “Aunty Sharon!” and then it all adds up. Well - kind of.

The girls are still strapped into the back, and Steve comes around to open Bucky’s door slowly. Bucky rearranges himself - he hadn’t noticed, but his right hand was still grasping the left one tight, as if to keep it from further harm.

Bucky glances up at Sharon and musters up the energy for a very pained sounding, “nice to meet you,” because he was raised with enduring good manners if nothing else.

Sharon smiles, but it’s business-like and fleeting. Bucky is the subject of a very critical once-over, then Sharon’s turned to Steve. “Alright, give me your sweatshirt,” she says, who slips out of what he was wearing and offers it without a single protest. Bucky smiles in strained amusement. “This might hurt,” is all the warning Bucky gets before Sharon is turning him around, removing the blanket he was curled up under and fashioning a sling out of Steve’s shirt. She’s right - it does hurt.

In the end, Bucky’s left arm is placed across his body, left hand pressed to his chest, held in place by a half-worn sweatshirt and his arm strung through some combination of the sleeves. He’s not sure he quite followed, but Sharon clearly knows what she’s doing.

“I’m not saying you’re going to be here for hours, but it’s the weekend - there are usually a lot more people in emergency now. Panicked parents, people just waking up from what they did last night, you get it.” Sharon’s chatting to Steve, and Bucky only knows of her as the Aunty Sharon who sometimes takes the kids, but she clearly knows the hospital. Bucky makes a mental note to ask exactly what it is she does later.

They keep talking, and Bucky drifts off again - honestly, he’d kill for some painkillers and a nap, instead of sitting around in the passenger seat of Steve’s car. He doesn’t notice they’re addressing him until Sharon waves a hand in his face, and he startles.

“When did you last eat?” Sharon’s holding a piece of paper in her hands - it’s small, probably a receipt stub or something similar.

It’s a confusing question. “Lunch time?” Bucky offers in response, and Sharon scratches out whatever she’s written and amends it.

“Right, go get these,” she hands the receipt to Steve, who takes it with a nod. “They’re over the counter painkillers. You’ll probably be sitting around close to an hour; this might make it a bit bearable.” This, she addresses to Bucky, and he obediently nods his head to show he’s paying attention.

Then the girls are being piled out of the car, Sharon loaded up with everything, and they’re parting ways. Bucky’s still sitting in the car feeling oddly removed from the entire situation, like it’s happened to someone else, not him.

Then it’s just him and Steve.

“I’ll help you up, okay?” Steve offers, and Bucky takes his hand with his right one, which is (thankfully) functioning. It’s a good thing Steve is stronger than him, because Bucky doesn’t contribute a single thing to the process. He lets himself be pulled upright, and as soon as he is Steve’s holding his waist and steadying him.

Steve closes the door and locks up the car, then they make their slow way over to the emergency room. Bucky’s sure Steve is about ready to toss him over his shoulder, but he’s insisted on walking himself now that he’s in a place where other people can see him.

They enter the room, and Bucky lets Steve do everything - well, except for the fact that he needs to tell Steve his full name (and he saves Steve the trouble of working backwards from his birthday to figure out the year he was born, because Bucky’s nice like that) – to check them in.

Bucky’s happy to finally be sitting down, and Steve hovers awkwardly until Bucky insists he go to the in-house pharmacy because as much as he loves having the other man nearby, he’d also _love_ not being able to feel his pulse burning through his entire forearm.

Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? Bucky’s already in emergency.

He’s had a lot of practice tuning out wailing children (thanks, Emma) so Bucky merely drifts off into his mind again while he waits for Steve to come back. There are plenty of kids, as Sharon had said, and a few more people who look like they’ve had a bad night. A couple hold onto those strange plastic vomit bags, and Bucky avoids looking at them most of all. Kids he can handle, but if another adult throws up, Bucky’s soon to follow - he has a sympathetic digestive system.

Steve reappears quicker than expected, though Bucky’s sense of time isn’t exactly spot on at present. He’s holding a plastic cup of water from the cooler and a box of the painkillers Sharon wrote down for him. “She’s said you can have two of these, and we’ll just let the doctor know when you get taken back,” Steve explains like it’s been drilled into him. From their brief meeting, Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if Sharon has given him exact instructions.

With only one hand, Steve passes over first the painkillers, then - once Bucky’s put them in his mouth - offers him the cup of water to wash them down.

Sharon, Bucky decides after about fifteen minutes, is a good person. The pain isn’t gone entirely, but it’s definitely dulled, and Bucky feels like he can finally breathe easy. He’s leaned his good arm against Steve’s side, and is watching a mother try desperately to soothe her crying child - he’s been going the entire time they’ve been there, and Bucky’s not sure he’s ever going to stop. Steve’s arm around him tightens in sympathy with every large wail, and Bucky finds the little gesture so hopelessly sweet that he turns his head towards the other man.

“I’m sorry I made things weird,” Bucky says, loud enough that Steve can hear him over the child.

Steve turns to look at Bucky, which is awkward since Bucky’s partially resting on his shoulder. “What do you mean you made things weird?”

Bucky tries not to blush, but alas, that doesn’t go according to plan either. What a day. “When we kissed.”

Steve’s blushes too, so at least he’s not the only one. “You didn’t make things weird, Buck.”

“Yeah I did,” Bucky sighs, and turns his head so he’s staring at the floor. Steve Rogers is a lot like the sun - it hurts to look directly at him, sometimes. It’s also very tempting to stare. “I said I liked you and I made things weird. I’m sorry.”

The hand around Bucky squeezes again, and the child is the quietest it’s been yet, so Bucky assumes it’s not a paternal instinct. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I -,” Steve hesitates, and Bucky prepares himself for the letdown he walked blindly into. Surely he could’ve taken a hint. “I like you too, Bucky, but - you don’t know me.”

It’s an odd thing to say and Bucky blinks at the ground. “Sure I do. You’re my neighbour.”

“And?”

“You have two kids,” Bucky’s sure that’s what Steve means. Two kids is a lot. Bucky doesn’t know if he wants to pursue something with Steve, just because he’s not exactly parent material, is he? But maybe he does. Maybe when his brain is working properly, he can give himself a concrete answer to that question. “I know their names.”

Steve laughs, and Bucky feels it reverberate through his body. “There’s other stuff. I was going to tell you.”

Bucky lifts his head up, which is a feat of monumental effort. “Were you?”

Steve nods. “That’s why I invited you over to dinner.”

Oh. That. “Sorry, I was - busy.” It’s not a lie - it’s not the full truth, either. He had been licking his wounds, in a manner of speaking.

“I know,” Steve smiles, a little sadly, but he coaxes Bucky’s head back down to his shoulder and who’s Bucky to deny him? “It’s fine.”

“You could tell me now,” Bucky offers, and he feels Steve’s thoughtful hum before he shakes his head. “Tell me something else, then.” Bucky suggests instead, watching other people get taken away by doctors and nurses. He’s a bit sick of the waiting game at this point. Can’t he just wear his DIY sling and call it a day?

“Like what?”

“Your favourite colour?”

“Red,” Steve answers, without hesitation, and Bucky considers that for a moment. “What’s yours?”

“Green.”

“Huh,” Steve says, in thought. “I didn’t expect that.”

Bucky snorts a tired laugh. “What were you expecting?”

There’s another thoughtful sound, then a shrug that almost dislodges Bucky’s resting spot. “I don’t know,” Steve says in the end.

Bucky’s thinking of something else to ask Steve about, but they’re finally calling his name - Steve snickers and calls him James under his breath as he helps him stand - and it’s time to go.

—

It’s evening by the time they leave the hospital. They’ve given Bucky something stronger to take than what Sharon had told Steve to get (fantastic) and put him in a splint until the swelling goes down. Eight weeks, they said, minimum. He’d need to work with a physiotherapist to get back to his usual work.

Bucky doesn’t have the time or the funds for that.

Bucky signs the discharge paperwork and Steve grabs the bill, because Bucky can’t even look at it right now.

He lets Steve guide him to the car, feeling just as sturdy as earlier - which is to say, not that sturdy at all. Steve pays the exorbitant parking fee, and waves Bucky away when he uselessly searches for the wallet that isn’t on his person. Bucky hopes Steve has it, because he’s got a lot of important shit in there, but he can worry about that later. Steve also opens the door and helps Bucky sit down, which is nice but he can’t actually feel anything in his arm so Steve could definitely be a bit rougher on him without consequence.

Bucky turns his body to the door once it’s securely closed, pressing his face to the glass. Fuck. He can’t afford eight weeks unable to work, let alone the costs involved with going to the hospital and getting a cast and the recovery afterwards.

 _Fuck_.

He doesn’t realise he’s so obvious about his inner turmoil until Steve’s hand appears on his thigh, and he expresses his mental sentiment aloud. It’s a good thing the girls aren’t in the car to hear him curse.

“You okay?” Steve asks, and it’s a stupid, useless thing to say to someone in Bucky’s position.

“Yes,” Bucky answers, but his voice cracks and he buries his face further against the window to sulk.

“Does your arm hurt? We can go back, I’ll get them to prescribe you something stronger,” Steve’s already saying - hell, he’s already changing lanes, geared up to perform a U-turn and _fix this_.

But it can’t be fixed. It’s done now.

“It’s not that,” Bucky answers bitterly, and he tries to take a steadying breath. He’s crying in the passenger seat of Steve’s car. This is pathetic. Steve’s very quickly going to take back what he said in the waiting room about liking Bucky back. “I can’t afford this. I need to be out by the end of June at the latest.” That was the problem with this kind of job - you took all your profits and poured them into the next project. It meant for a greater return at the end, but it also left you in an awkward spot when things like this happened.

Steve’s hand is still on his thigh, thumb moving, and Bucky wants to cry harder. “What do you need to finish?” Steve asks in the voice he uses when he’s trying to regulate Amelia’s emotions. He’s just as bad as a seven-year-old.

“We need to finish cleaning the outside. Paint the interior. Flooring.” It’s not like there’s a whole lot left, actually. Bucky could probably draw his endpoint out to July, but the quicker he finishes and sells, the less interest he’s paying on the home loan - which is a huge amount. Rip-off banks.

Bucky lifts his head to rub at his cheeks. He’s already made a pathetic mess of himself in front of Steve, so why not continue to add insult to injury? The doctor’s kindly cleaned to mud off his face, but he still feels dirty.

“Let me help,” Steve says, suddenly, and Bucky turns to look at him.

“What?” Bucky asks, confusion evident. Let Steve help? Bucky was doing that right now – not that he’d had much room to argue.

Steve shrugs, keeps rubbing Bucky’s thigh. “I can paint. And clean. You tell me what to do, I’ll do it.” It seems to be a genuine offer. Bucky knows Steve is a good guy, but - jeez. That’s too much to ask someone to do.

“You have a job.”

Steve’s hand grips tighter. “I have a lot of time off saved up. I only use it when the girls need me.”

“I can’t pay you.” Bucky wants so badly to take Steve up on his offer, but it wouldn’t be fair. Bucky has himself (and Sarge) to support, and if he fucks up this job and loses money, he should be the one to wear that cost. Not Steve, with his own home and two dependents.

Steve just shakes his head, and looks - sad? “I have paid holidays. And even if I didn’t, I -,” he hesitates over his words, and Bucky places his right hand over Steve’s, just holding it. “I have a lot of savings. I would love to help you, Buck. Really.”

Bucky’s not in the right state of mind for this conversation. He feels - well, he feels too much, all at once, and that’s the problem. He keeps his hand over Steve’s and doesn’t answer, because his mind can’t find the words for the immense gratitude and terror he feels at the potential of Steve being even closer to him, being an even bigger part of his life.

“Can I think about it?” Bucky answers, and he feels the way he did when he said he liked Steve a few weeks ago: like he’d just fucked everything up.

Steve simply smiles, eyes still on the road, and squeezes Bucky’s thigh again. “Of course you can.”

—

They get home - well, to Steve’s house, which is near enough to home - and Bucky doesn’t bother arguing when Steve brings Bucky and his stuff inside. “You’ll be in my bed,” Steve states, leaving no room for Bucky to protest, and he’s really not going to. He feels exhausted, like the day was a week long, and the thought of a bed is the only thing keeping his tired body moving. “Is there anything I need to do at your place? I have your keys and wallet and some clothes and toiletries.” Steve gestures at the bag he packed.

Bucky is in quiet awe of the man. “Uhm,” he blinks, uselessly trying to think. “Oh – did you feed Sarge? He can sleep outside.” It was warm enough now that the dumb mutt had to get used to the great outdoors again. Bucky was only soft over the winter because he hated it too.

“I gave him something to eat when we left, but I’ll go check how he’s going,” Steve explains, walking Bucky down to his bedroom. “Do you want to have a shower or a bath? I can help - if you want.” Steve’s blushing as he suggests it, gesturing to Bucky’s arm to explain his offer.

Bucky wishes he had the energy to even think about Steve bathing him. He may have to return to that fantasy later. “No, I’ll - if you just give me a washcloth, I’ll,” Bucky lazily mimes cleaning himself with his one good hand. “Unless you’re saying I smell, Rogers.”

“I’d never,” Steve says, faux scandalised.

Steve gets Bucky set up in his en suite, which is rather impersonal: a few products line the space beneath the bathroom mirror, and the shower has two generic bottles of shampoo and condition plus a bar of soap. It’s like no one actually lives there.

He treats Bucky like a baby, checking the temperature of the water he runs and putting some of Emma’s baby soap in it (yes, treats him like a _literal baby_ ) so it foams up a little. Steve lays a washcloth beside the sink, puts Bucky’s clothes on the toilet seat, and disappears next door. “Just scream really loud if you need anything,” he says in parting, before Bucky’s left alone.

Cleaning himself is slow work, and Bucky concentrates on the most important - namely, most sweaty - parts of his body. He’s not going to do a good job, but he at least wants to be bearable until he can get out of Steve’s hair. What little energy he has goes into washing and drying himself off. By the time Bucky’s changing into the clothes Steve laid out for him, he’s thinking the bathroom floor looks like a good place to nap.

As much as he wants to curl up and sleep, Bucky forces himself out into Steve’s bedroom. Steve’s already sitting on the edge of the bed, and Bucky startles a little at the sight of him.

“How did you go?” Steve asks, and Bucky waves off his helping hand as he stumbles over to the bed. “You’ve got to eat something before you go to sleep, Buck.”

Great. “I’m not hungry,” he protests as he awkwardly pushes the comforter down with one hand to wriggle his body underneath.

“I’ll make you something light,” Steve offers, and it’s not the kind of offer that can just be dismissed. Bucky’s eating it, whether Steve has to force pureed baby food down his throat or not. “Toast?”

Bucky can’t think of anything worse, but Steve offers him a pillow to prop his chest up, so he reluctantly agrees. “Okay.”

“What do you want on it? Butter? Peanut butter? Amelia has some weird chocolate spread she likes in the pantry.”

“Surprise me,” Bucky answers, which is shorthand for “ _I don_ _’t care_.”

Steve, satisfied with the answer he has, disappears and leaves Bucky to sit with his thoughts. Now that he’s in Steve’s bed - admittedly under less than ideal conditions - and forced to stay awake, he’s going to be nosey. Bucky looks around, and this, at least, feels a bit lived in. There’s photos on the drawers, a heap of Amelia and Emma, plus some with other people - Bucky, at a distance, thinks he recognises Sam and Sharon in at least a few.

On the bedside table, there’s two smaller photos: both of which must be with Peggy. Bucky can’t be certain, but judging from the identical woman in both shots - make-up free and laughing in one, then wedding ready in the other - he’s feeling it’s a safe bet. Bucky picks up the first picture and looks at it with tired eyes. Steve appears to be so happy in that one, smiling from cheek-to-cheek. It’s the same smile Bucky’s experienced the force of only a handful of times but has absolutely blown him away on each and every occasion. No wonder Peggy was mesmerised. Steve is enchanting.

Bucky’s still looking at the photo when Steve knocks and re-enters, and Bucky’s not at his best so instead of returning the frame to its rightful place he just looks guiltily up at the other man.

Steve’s eyes dart to the photo, then back to Bucky, and he tries to smile. “I got you toast. I thought butter was safest.” Steve doesn’t sound mad, but just a little uneasy.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, putting the photo back. “It’s a nice photo of you.” He adds, hoping the compliment softens the blow of his invasion of privacy.

Steve crosses to the other side of the bed and sits down, placing the plate on Bucky’s lap. Steve’s also got with him a glass of water, and he leans _across_ Bucky to put it on the bedside table, which is much closer than Bucky expects Steve would want to get after catching his neighbour going through his shit. Bucky picks up the toast and forces himself to nibble at the corner.

“Now’s not really the time for this conversation,” Steve begins, after a few minutes of Bucky trying to get the toast down and keep it there. He doesn’t feel unwell, but he also doesn’t feel hungry, so it’s just - laborious. “Peggy always took a nice photo, though.”

Bucky doesn’t know exactly what ‘this conversation’ entails, but with a dead wife it’s not hard to put two and two together. Bucky wishes his left hand wasn’t strapped in place, so he could offer Steve some comfort. “No kidding. You’ll have to show me some others.”

Steve smiles, and draws his knees up. It’s almost funny how he can make himself look small when he’s so very - large. “I will.” They continue to sit in silence for a moment longer, but Bucky’s starting to realise that Steve can never really help himself. He can feel the other man wanting to talk, and it only takes him a few minutes to blurt it out. “I want to tell you about her.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky responds, with genuine surprise. He’s tackled half the plate of toast before he puts it on the bedside table, beside Peggy and Steve.

“She’s -,” Steve’s talking to the opposite wall, not to Bucky, but he can respect how hard this is. “She was a big part of my life. And I - I don’t know. I like you, Bucky. But… there’s a lot you’d be getting into. So just - think about it. And if you want me to, I’ll tell you about her.” Steve lets one leg roll to the side so his knee is pressed to Bucky’s, the comforter separating them.

Steve’s right. He should think about it. He shouldn’t let his heart – which is admittedly not the wisest organ in his body – make decisions without seeking prior approval from the brain. It’s hard, though, because Bucky could turn and lean in and, without much effort, join their lips together. The temptation to do that is almost as strong as the one telling him to go to sleep.

He’ll think about it in the morning, Bucky decides, as he muffles a yawn in his right shoulder. Sleep is winning out over the other bad decisions he could be making at that moment.

“I should let you get some rest,” Steve stands up, and waits beside the bed. “Do you need anything else?”

Bucky doesn’t need anything except Steve, he wants to say, but that’s the part of his brain that’s in pain and sulking and in desperate need of someone to solve all his problems. “Where are you going to sleep?” Bucky asks, eyes narrowing - part tiredness, part critical.

“Couch.”

“ _Steve_.”

“Don’t, Bucky. You need the bed. We’ll figure something out tomorrow.”

“I’ve got my own bed, Steve Rogers.” Not that Bucky fancies spending his time with a busted arm trying to get up off a futon on the ground, but that’s his life. Steve shouldn’t have to put his on hold for Bucky.

Steve shakes his head as he comes around to Bucky’s side of the bed, picking up the toast. “ _You_ are injured. You need to be somewhere a bit nicer than the floor, at least for a while.”

Bucky wants to argue more, but Steve’s bed is so _damn_ comfortable. He wriggles further down the bed, narrowed eyes still trained on the other man.

“Goodnight, Bucky.” Steve’s smiling at him, the asshole, as he switches the light off and disappears out into the hallway.

Bucky should really think about what’s happening, but he’s got the lingering painlessness of the medication in his body and Steve’s amazing bed around him, so thinking gets put on hold for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the sake of cute carrying/cuddles Steve picked Bucky up but plz consider head/spine injuries and always call an ambulance where possible thx 💖


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters in two nights?  
> surprise!  
> I'm not sure whether this thing is wrapping up in two or three more chapters so I'm posting now to make sure we get enough time for all of them before due date~  
>  ~~also I've come down with a cold so all love sent this way is appreciated thank u 💕~~

If there is one thing Bucky can commit to, it’s a good sulk. He’s got good reason, too, seeing as how he’s being treated like a child. Steve pops in to check up on him what feels like every minute, with a multitude of offers: is he hungry? Thirsty? Needs his pillows fluffed? He’s made sure Bucky’s arm is elevated and iced so many times that Bucky doesn’t even answer him any more - Steve’s just going to do it anyway, and if it’s doctor’s orders (Bucky can’t quite remember exactly what he was supposed to do), then it’s for the greater good.

It sounds like a dream come true, because Steve will literally do _whatever he asks for_ , but Bucky isn’t the sort of person to be waited on hand and foot. He’s always been active, always _doing_ , a perpetual motion machine, and this abrupt lack of _anything_ is almost painful.

The painkillers are nice, and they dull the pain of everything - including the mandatory call to his mother, which will only get worse the longer he puts it off. He’s already avoided it for one day, having spent the previous one in a state that was more sleep than awake.

They go through the motions: Winifred calling him an idiot, accusing him of poor work practises (” _I_ _’ve been watching your father for years, James, and I have_ seen _how_ he _treats safety - and now he_ _’s riddled with arthritis, and I listen to him whine about his back every time it starts to get cold, but worse than that he taught_ you _all he knew! Honestly, it_ _’s about time something like this happened, and I’m not happy about it!_ ”), the usual overly concerned mother stuff. Bucky nods through it, eyes closed, giving appropriate _mhm_ ’s when the time calls for it, occasionally tossing in an apology to keep in her good favour.

“And what are you going to do? You can’t drive home - and you’re not going to be laying on that mattress on the floor for the next eight weeks!” Bucky’s sure his ears would be bleeding, and maybe they are, but he can’t feel anything. He wonders idly how long his prescription is going to last.

Bucky blinks back when he realises he’s being asked a question, not just berated. “I’m staying with Steve for now,” Bucky answers, and the man in question - bustling around, fretting in a way that he must think is subtle but really isn’t - stops and looks.

“Steve?” Winnie demands.

“Yeah, you met him on the phone before Christmas. Remember, with Amelia? You said you wanted her to come visit,” Bucky explains, and ignores the way his face heats. He thinks the embarrassment is on behalf of his mother, but the way Steve is beaming at him is not helping.

There’s a noise of displeasure which morphs into one of recognition. “Oh, yes - the handsome one? Put him on the phone.”

“Yes, the - that one,” Bucky colours further, and figures Steve can endure some of the torture. He pulls the phone away from his ear and holds it out. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Me?” Steve mouths, and at Bucky’s nod he takes the phone. “Hello, Mrs Barnes?”

And god, there it is. Winnie is going to be enamoured. _Mrs Barnes_ , jeez.

“Of course I can-,” Bucky watches as Steve is interrupted, knowing that feeling all too well. He sips at the tea Steve’s bought him - something about it being better for him than coffee. Bucky doesn’t get it, but it tastes alright. Not as much like leaves as he expected. “Of course, ma’am. He’ll be eating three square meals a day at least.”

If Mrs Barnes hadn’t done it, the _ma_ _’am_ would - Winnie would be having a heart attack. Bucky sincerely hoped she didn’t try to marry him off over the phone. Maybe she’s marrying herself off. She always complains about chivalry being dead. “Yes, every appointment.” Bucky smiles at the fondly exasperated look on Steve’s face. “No, ma’am, he’s not going home until he’s cleared by his physiotherapist.”

_That_ _’s_ news to Bucky, and his amused smile turns to a scowl - Steve conveniently turns away. “Any time. I’ll have Bucky send you my number. I’ll speak to you soon, Mrs Barnes. You have a good day now.”

Steve holds Bucky’s phone out to him, but the line is dead. He lets it drop onto the covers of the bed.

“Your mother is lovely,” Steve says quickly, as he returns to his fussing - he’s currently dusting the top of the dresser, which is absolutely ridiculous because there’s not a speck of dust on it, but Bucky isn’t going to tell Steve how to live his life. Steve, apparently, isn’t giving Bucky the same courtesy.

Bucky hums. “What’s this about me not going home?”

Steve at least has the decency to look sheepish now that he’s been caught out. “You can’t live like that, Buck. You’ve got a mattress on the floor.”

“What’s everyone’s problem with how I sleep? It’s comfortable!” Bucky protests, but Steve’s not listening: he’s picking up photo frames and dusting over the glass and beneath them. “Okay, and are you going to sleep on the couch for eight weeks?”

“Obviously,” Steve replies like it is, in fact, obvious.

Bucky splutters. “No you’re not, Steve! This is your house, and this is your life. I’m not ruining it.”

The look Steve turns on him is one that makes Bucky feel like he’s staring into the sun. Bucky averts his gaze. “Bucky,” Steve says seriously, coming to stand at the end of the bed. He leans forward to nudge Bucky’s foot with his hand, and Bucky reluctantly looks up. “You have done the _opposite_ of ruin my life.” The way Steve speaks, it’s as if each word is weighed carefully, like he’s considered this as seriously as a life or death decision. Bucky’s eyes drop again, focused on the carpet. “I want you here.” Steve adds, almost as an afterthought.

It reminds Bucky, through yesterday’s haze of adrenaline crash and painkillers, that Steve had spoken to him about - this. It feels scarier in the light of day, like Bucky could actually reach out and take what he wanted.

“I want to be here,” Bucky answers, in as level a voice as he can manage when Steve’s just said something like _that_ to him. “I do. I’m just - not sure.” Now he’s the one doing it to Steve, saying he’s sorry, that he can’t do this. He knows how badly it hurt, and yet here he is, pulling back ever so slightly.

And it’s not that Bucky _can_ _’t_ do it. He can. He’d do Steve Rogers in a heartbeat, if he’s being honest with himself, but… the kids. Bucky doesn’t want to ruin their lives – and Steve’s, by extension - by being there one moment and not the next, though he’s probably already done that.

Steve looks hurt, just a little, and he turns around to hide it. Bucky remembers himself that night in the bathroom, when Steve had grabbed him and reeled him in for a kiss. Is that how he looked, the pain concealed under some kind of false expression? Or was he more obvious about it, the drunken removal of boundaries leaving his every thought painted clearly on his face?

“I think it’s pretty clear that I like you,” Bucky says after a moment, because he’s good at digging himself into holes, and he doesn’t want Steve to blame himself. How anyone could look at Steve and _not_ fall in love with him – Bucky couldn’t understand. “I just - I’m not going to be here forever. I don’t want to do that to you.”

Saying it makes it real, that moving out and moving on is part of his future, as good as written in stone. He’s got a deadline - that’s why he’s sulking about the arm, he recalls. It’s easy to forget with how it doesn’t hurt at present, like he’s just in Steve’s bed watching him clean up, like this is a normal day. It could be normal, that’s a thought he entertains briefly.

Steve says nothing, just continues to clean. Bucky is trying not to be the worst person ever, but he does spend a few moments staring admiringly at Steve’s back checking his vibrating phone.

_From Becca: ma says you_ _’re staying with your hot neighbour????????_

_From Becca: what_ _’s going on_

Bucky sighs.

It’s like the world is out to get him.

_To Becca: Yes I am bc I broke my arm that was the key part of the story_

Texting is much harder with one hand, too. Bucky’s quickly coming to realise _everything_ is more difficult now. The reality of this being the next eight weeks of his life is still lingering by the surface, and he’s waiting for it to properly sink in.

_From Becca: wtf she didn_ _’t tell me that lol_

_From Becca: what did you do??_

_To Becca: I fell off a ladder shut up_

By now, Steve’s moved out of his room and is - somewhere else. Becca is laughing at his misfortune, which has been a cornerstone of their relationship since he was old enough for her to blame him for literally everything.

He goes back to sulking.

—

Bucky’s sulking turns into dozing. He wakes up to Steve pestering him to eat lunch, and does so, mostly because he’s sure Steve’s taken his phone to grab his mother’s number to tell on him when he’s not doing the right thing. He’s also basically putty in Steve’s hands and would do whatever the man asked him to if he did it with that pleading look in his sweet blue eyes.

The next time he wakes up, he nearly falls out of bed.

Amelia is staring at him critically, like a corpse she’s dissecting with her eyes, and Bucky wakes up to her nose nearly in his face.

“What the _f_ -,” Bucky catches himself at the last minute, reaching up with his right hand to rub at his eyes. “Wow. Hello.”

“Your arm is broken,” Amelia observes, and Bucky is so close to saying “ _no shit_ ” that he just makes a noise in response rather than risk it. Steve might still kill him if he teaches his daughter a curse word. Though, from the sounds of it, she’s inherited Steve’s genes – which probably means she knows a lot more than Steve likes to think she does.

Instead of pursuing the conversation, which is basically a game of ‘ _state the obvious_ ’, Amelia curls up next to him. She is - surprisingly gentle, in fact, moulding her little body around the side of his. Amelia’s head ends up on his shoulder, and he can feel her snuffle a bit as she settles.

Bucky turns his head slowly to check the clock at Steve’s bedside, because he’s old-fashioned and has an analogue clock there, and it’s only four. Right. School. Amelia does that.

“Sarge’ll be missing you giving him your toys over the fence right about now.”

Amelia sniffles. Is she crying? Bucky wants to turn and check, but he can’t roll onto his left side at present. “But if I kick a ball over the fence, who’s gonna send it back?” She says, plaintive.

“That’s true,” Bucky answers, and lapses into silence. Poor Sarge. He’ll be missing everything - he’s such a lapdog, despite his size. All he wants is to be around people, whether they’re playing with him or just letting him sleep in the corner. “He probably needs a walk. Do you wanna help me?” Bucky has spent the past two days in bed. He should really do something.

Amelia bounces up, through some miracle not jostling his arm too much. “Yes!” She chimes, going from zero to one hundred in the space of a breath. Bucky thinks he might have whiplash.

“Right, just - gimme a minute. I’ll get up and get dressed.” Or maybe he won’t. Bucky pushes himself upright and notices, too late, that this isn’t actually _his_ place. Steve grabbed some clothes, but they’re what Bucky’s wearing now, his work clothes in Steve’s laundry somewhere.

Well, it’s not like it’s weird to walk your dog in sweats. Bucky looks more like he’s wearing pyjamas than anything else, but who’s going to judge him?

“You’re already dressed,” Amelia looks him over, a tiny, non-judgemental; fashion critic, but doesn’t find any issues with it. “You need a jacket, it’s cold outside.” The addition sounds like it’s being parroted directly from Steve, like she’s spent seven years on this earth with her father forcing her to wear a jacket any time it’s below eighty degrees, so this is just normal now.

Bucky nods, vaguely processing the words, not quite putting together the meaning.

That is, until Amelia’s presenting him with a jacket from Steve’s wardrobe. “Here,” she states, and - again, like her father - there’s no arguing here.

Bucky smiles and takes it, using his right hand to drape it over his shoulders. He doesn’t want Steve to think he’s going through all of his things, playing dress up with them. “You know I have my own clothes, right?” He asks, but he’s already being led out of Steve’s room by his good hand.

“You’ll have to go outside to get them, and then you’ll catch a cold.”

Right. Well, Bucky’s not arguing with that logic. This is the most walking around he’s done since getting back from the hospital, and he can’t even take it easy because he’s in the capable hands of a determined child. It’s nice to have that purpose, anyway.

Steve is in the living room, folding laundry and keeping an eye on Emma who’s now walking and causing more havoc. He looks somewhat startled at the sight of them.

“Amelia,” Steve says, and Bucky’s come to recognise the tone of a parent who is only sparing their child a good scolding because there’s a guest present. Bucky smiles. “You were meant to be doing your home reading.”

“Bucky needs help walking the dog!” Amelia protests, then gestures at Bucky. “I made him put a jacket on!” She adds, as if she’s going to win brownie points for that.

Steve gives Bucky a sympathetic look, the apology loud and clear on his face. Bucky would wave the concern away, but Amelia’s still holding onto him. “Bucky’s hurt, sweetheart. You need to let him rest.”

“It’s really alright,” Bucky intervenes now, and Amelia beams. She’s got back-up. “I need to get out. Is it okay? We’re just going for a quick walk.”

Steve looks between the two of them, and Bucky can’t tell who he’s more worried about. “Your keys are on the kitchen table. And your shoes are by the door.”

Amelia clearly reads the permission inherent in those two sentences, and Bucky’s back to being pulled about like a toy. He obediently puts his shoes on when Amelia points at them, pockets his keys, and lets his younger master lead the way.

Sarge is ecstatic to see them, and Bucky has to put up a defensive knee when he walks into his yard to save being jumped all over. After some reassuring pats, Bucky instructs Amelia to pick up the leash, and then Sarge loses his mind all over again. Bucky’s glad Amelia wants to take the lead on this one - Bucky’s standing out of the danger zone to avoid further injury. If Steve was here he’d probably have a stroke, because Amelia’s getting jumped on by a dog who’s about the same size as her when he puts his meaty paws on her little shoulders.

But Steve isn’t here, so Amelia gets jumped over and licked and cackles with delight the entire time.

Amelia holds the leash, because - excitement aside - Sarge is a good walker. He doesn’t tug or pull, he’s just happy to wander about, sniff the smells, pee on the street signs. Just dog stuff.

Bucky leads them on a short, fifteen-minute walk, mostly because he doesn’t know how far he’ll make it. It’s slow and ambling, but Amelia fills the silence with an earnest recount of her day.

“We got our new spelling words today. We’re doing the long i sound - a long sound is where the letter sounds like it’s name, so it sounds like the letter i,” Amelia explains in depth, and at Bucky’s blank stare she looks as if she might elaborate before deciding better of it. “Anyway, one of my group’s words - we’re in the Green Geckos group - one of the words is twilight, and I already knew how to spell it because it’s like Twilight Sparkle - she’s an alicorn princess, Bucky, did you know?”

Bucky did not, in fact, know. He vaguely registers the name Twilight Sparkle as one of the horses. He nods his head. “That’s cool,” he says, but he can’t muster up the energy to make it sound sincere. He is interested, just - well, Amelia’s a lot. He’s enjoying the scenery and fresh air more than the conversation, not that he’d tell her that.

“Right, so we did our spelling groups, then we started working on writing.” Amelia doesn’t seem like she cares for his response at all. She just carries on over the top of him. “And we’re doing persuasive texts, where you get someone to do something, and we did our three reasons today.” She holds up three fingers on her opposite hand. “And when you do three reasons you can say firstly, secondly, and lastly _but_ if you’re doing four reasons you can’t say lastly for third because it’s not last. So you gotta say thirdly.”

Bucky hums when he can get a gap in the conversation. “Who’re you persuading to do stuff?”

Amelia’s moved partway on to mental maths, but she takes the conversation back a step for him. “What?”

“Well, if you’re persuading someone, what’re you persuading them to do?”

This seems to confuse Amelia, and she pauses to think a moment before starting to walk again. “Mrs Webb is getting us to write about having pets at school but she said we can write them to our parents to get them to do stuff! Matilda wrote one asking for a puppy and she _got_ one, so I’m gonna do it to Daddy and make him do it too.”

Bucky wants to interrupt that a note from a child is probably not going to seal the deal on a puppy, but what does he know? Steve gives off alternating _strict parent_ and _complete pushover_ vibes, he never knows what to believe.

“Why don’t you ask your dad if you can just look after Sarge for me? He’ll need some help with walking and feeding, since I can’t use my arm for a while.”

Amelia looks sceptically at him, as if he’s joking, but then something clicks in her head and she smiles brightly at him. “Can I have him?”

Which is not _quite_ what Bucky meant, but - okay. “You can look after him while I’m hurt,” Bucky clarifies, very clearly, and Amelia either doesn’t understand or doesn’t care, because he spends the last part of the walk hearing about how she’s going to persuade Steve to let her keep Sarge.

—

When they get home, Amelia disappears immediately into her bedroom to write this persuasive text of hers. Sarge has been fed and locked up in his lonely yard, whining pitifully at the fence in his own form of persuading.

“How was it?” Steve asks conversationally over a dinner which smells _amazing_. Bucky must look concerned or something, because Steve adds, “that bad?”

“I think she’s going to write you a letter asking if she can have my dog.” Bucky’s still not entirely sure if Amelia’s gunning for her own puppy, or Bucky’s, but Sarge is very much not for sale - no matter how dopey he is. “I just said she could look after him.”

Steve laughs and turns back to the curry he’s making. “That’s the thing with her. Give an inch,” he doesn’t bother completing his sentence, because Amelia’s already taking ten miles and Bucky’s dog with her.

He joins the family for dinner for the first time since breaking his arm, and it feels warm and nice. It feels like home - the way Bucky feels when he’s back with his mother and father, crowding around the table, talking about their day. Bucky doesn’t contribute much to the discussion, but he listens to Amelia regale Steve with mostly the same story he heard earlier - except now he also gets to hear about maths and art - and then talk about what she’s playing at lunch with Morgan.

It’s surprisingly easy, actually, to let the whole experience wash over him. Bucky sits and soaks it up. He watches Emma eat her dinner and Amelia help (”help”) do the dishes, and though he offers Steve just forces him to stay sitting down so he does. He moves to the living room when the rest of the family does, listens as they all cycle through their baths (”Amelia, you _wash your hair_ , it is _filthy!_ ” called at least four times through the bathroom door; she comes out with dry hair) and barely pays attention to the cartoons running on the screen.

“Go say goodnight to Bucky,” Steve instructs as it nears 8pm, which must be bedtime for 7-going-on-17-year-olds. Emma conked out on her playmat an hour ago, totally oblivious to the television show still playing.

Amelia, dry hair and My Little Pony pyjamas and all, walks over to him. Then she crawls onto the couch and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Bucky,” she says.

It shouldn’t feel special - she gently places a kiss on Emma’s forehead, too - but Bucky is rooted in place by how much he _wants_ this.

But that’s not why he’s said no to Steve. It’s because he might want to be there for them, but he has no idea if he’s actually _any good_ for them. Sure, he can sit and listen to them go about their routines and wish to exist there forever, but what contributions will he actually make? He doesn’t know how to keep a child alive long-term. Becca only _just_ started trusting him on day trips with Liam. To expect Steve to take him on-board, a complete novice with kids, was ridiculous.

He’s still sitting in his existential crisis - the Rogers’ have been the cause of a lot of those lately, Bucky should ask Steve to cover his therapy co-pay - when Steve comes back to the living room. Emma has been gently plucked from the floor and put to bed; Amelia has had her bedtime story.

“Bedtime?” Steve asks, with a soft smile, the sort he turned on his sleeping daughter not ten minutes ago.

Steve stands and looks at him, clearly waiting for Bucky to vacate his current bed - aka. a couch, which is not even remotely comfortable. “You’re not sleeping here tonight,” Bucky answers, hoping he looks defiant rather than tired.

“You’re not sleeping here tonight, either, so what’s the plan?”

Bucky huffs and huddles down a little, pulling his - Steve’s, actually, shit - jacket tighter around his shoulders. “You go to bed and leave me to figure it out?”

“Nice try,” Steve is smiling at him, like Bucky’s amusing, and he feels like a petulant child. Is that a dad thing, the ability to make you feel stupidly stubborn? “C’mon, Buck. You need the bed more than me.”

“I’ll only sleep there if you do,” Bucky issues it like a challenge, except he’s essentially daring Steve to sleep with him. It’s like he’s in middle school all over again and this is spin the bottle or something.

Steve’s smile turns confused. He raises an eyebrow and waits momentarily - perhaps for the punchline. Bucky wants to retract what he’s said, because it’s stupid, but he’s feeling stubborn. He’s going to blame it on the injury and the painkillers. Surely that excuse is good for a few more days at least.

“Okay, Buck,” Steve’s clearly made a decision, and he holds a hand out.

Bucky takes it and pulls himself upright, lets Steve guide them towards his bedroom. There’s something about Steve’s genes and pulling Bucky around by the hand - that is, that all Rogers’ seem predisposed to it. Bucky greatly enjoys it. He’d let Steve or Amelia or, hell, Emma when she’s big enough, drag him into the sun itself.

Or just into the bathroom. That works, too.

It’s hard to tell if Steve is flirting in a weird, domestic way, or he’s just decided Bucky is his newest, dumbest child. He carefully puts toothpaste on Bucky’s toothbrush, and puts it in his hand for him, pre-dampened. Bucky obediently brushes his teeth, gauging how long he has to keep going by how long Steve brushes his teeth for. Steve has fantastic teeth.

Bucky turns to the mirror and gives up on his game of toothbrush-chicken, spitting into the sink and rinsing his mouth one-handed.

The one advantage to having spent the past few days in the same clothes (yes, it’s gross, he knows) is that Bucky doesn’t have to change. He can just remove Steve’s jacket, somewhat reluctantly, and then crawl into bed. The advantage, then, to being in bed, is that Bucky can huddle up under the covers and watch Steve get ready. No, he doesn’t change in front of Bucky - which is disappointing - but he does the cutest stuff. Steve lays out his clothes for the next day, messes with his phone and puts it on charge on the dresser on the other side of the room, then disappears to check the perimeter of the house before shutting all the lights off.

At last, Steve closes the door behind him - leaving it slightly ajar, probably another dad thing - and stands by the bed. Bucky watches him by the light of the bedside lamp, blankets pulled up to his chin.

“What?” Bucky feels like he’s under the microscope, what with Steve staring at him like that.

“Nothing,” Steve says, too quickly, and flushes. “Just - you’re sure?”

“About what?”

“Sleeping together,” Steve clarifies as if Bucky didn’t already know.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Shut up and come to bed, Steve.”

Steve responds surprisingly well to instructions, and he carefully peels the covers back and lays down next to Bucky, stiff as a board. Bucky considers pointing out to him that they’ve already slept before - and on a futon which meant they had to, at all times, be in contact with each other - but he’s going to let Steve have his way. He’s not sleeping on the couch, so Bucky’s happy.

“Good night,” Bucky says, once Steve’s switched the bedside lamp off and they’re both laying in awkward darkness.

“Night, Bucky.”

—

Bucky is jarred awake by a sudden, shrill beeping noise.

“What the _fuck_?” He curses, because he doesn’t have an alarm - he’s not an alarm guy. He’s a get up when you get up guy. The perks of working for yourself.

The person breathing against his collarbone must be the owner of the alarm, because there’s a heavy sigh and the warm weight of Steve starts to move. So much for sticking to his own side of the bed. Bucky is cranky but smug. Also smitten, but that’s not new these days.

“Sorry, I should’ve-,” Steve begins explaining, but the beeping continues, and he gets to his feet and stumbles over to where his phone is. Bucky has pulled a pillow over his face one-handed. “Sorry. I have to get Amelia up for school.”

“Right,” Bucky answers, though it’s more a yawn than a word.

As well as being the sort of person to get up when his body tells him too, he’s also the sort of unfortunate soul who can’t easily just fall back asleep. He’ll try - Winifred Barnes can attest to that for ages twelve-through-eighteen - but he ends up just rolling around and dozing. That doesn’t mean he’s going to pull the pillow off his face, especially not when Steve flicks the light on.

Bucky listens to the door creak open fully, and tracks Steve’s progress across the hall to Amelia’s bedroom. He’s expecting some gentle words from Steve, maybe a soft awakening with calm music, but instead he hears the click of a light and Amelia wail.

“Time to get up. There’s Lucky Charms on the counter,” Steve sounds more like a drill sergeant than a father.

Bucky’s quick to find out why.

“ _Dad_ ,” Amelia whines in the most long, drawn-out voice he’s ever heard.

“Amelia,” Steve snaps, voice an angry whisper that carries through the two open doors straight to Bucky. “Bucky is asleep right now, and he does _not_ need to be woken up by you. Go eat your breakfast and get dressed. I’m having a shower.”

Bucky thinks that’s the end of the argument, but then Amelia’s voice is closer. “Daddy, I want toast for breakfast!”

“Amelia _Sarah Rogers_ ,” and Bucky flinches at the full name, while simultaneously smirking. He has to pull the pillow down, because he’s afraid Steve might turn on him next. “Go to the kitchen _now_.” He can see it, the clenched teeth that match with the growl.

“ _Dad!_ ” She tries once more, but something must happen because Steve marches back into the room alone.

Bucky lays in bed as the shower starts to run, trying to follow Amelia by sound, but he can’t hear her. She’s tiny, so she probably manages to creep silently around the house. She’s definitely snuck up on Bucky once or twice.

“Bucky,” Amelia’s sulky voice comes from the doorway, and Bucky considers playing dumb and staying asleep. He could get away with it.

Then the bed dips with her weight, and Bucky has to yawn, so he pretends he’s just been awoken. He pulls the pillow down and smiles sleepily at her. The ceiling light is hurting his eyes. “What’s up, kid?” Bucky asks, voice sleep-rough, and at least he’s making a convincing play at having just woken up since it’s only five minutes away from being true.

“I don’t wanna get ready for school,” Amelia’s lower lip is wobbling, but Bucky can tell that it’s not for real. He’s the soft parent now. He’s the “ _go ask your mother_ ” parent - or at least, that’s how it was in his family. Winnie ran the house like a tight ship. George was just happy that the kids were doing stuff. He was the one to ask for anything, but he often redirected them to Winnie so they wouldn’t take advantage too often.

Bucky knows how to play this game - or he hopes he does. “I’m hungry. Do you wanna help me make breakfast?” Bucky asks, scrubbing at his eyes with his good hand.

The lower lip moves further in front of the other. “But _Bucky._ ”

It’s like she knows that he can imagine his name whined like that - and yeah, he knows the novelty would wear off after the first two times, but for now it’s cute. “I really want cereal. Do you have any?” Bucky tries again.

“We have Lucky Charms, but I don’t wanna have them.”

“I love Lucky Charms,” Bucky imbues his voice with as much false enthusiasm as he can, given he doesn’t like cereal at all and it’s 7am. “What if we have breakfast and then Sarge and I can walk you to school?”

That seems to be the deal-sealer, and Amelia gets up off the bed and wanders down the hallway. It’s less enthusiastic than her usual manner of moving, which is random sprinting, but Bucky can forgive her, given the early hour. He’s slow getting out of bed, too, and he sleepily pads out into the kitchen behind her. He really should shower today, he realises, but he’ll get to that later.

Amelia picks up the box of Lucky Charms Steve left out last night, and pours some into the small, pink bowl. Then she pulls out a proper bowl for Bucky and fills it to the top. He doesn’t know how he’s going to get through a half-box of the sweet, cardboardy mess, but he’s willing to give it a shot.

It’s clear that Bucky isn’t a parent because he lets Amelia pour a gallon bottle of milk on her own. He just watches it unfold in front of him. She picks it up, and it probably weighs as much as she does, then tips it over.

Bucky feels like he’s living in a parallel universe, because Amelia makes minimal mess _and_ wipes up what she does spill on the counter. He blinks at the scene before him, one that could have readily become a disaster.

Is the bribery of a dog really enough to get her this obedient? Maybe he should let Steve in on his secret.

“Good morning,” Steve says, and Bucky glances up from the multicoloured slop he’s trying his best to stomach to meet the man’s eyes. He looks - pleasantly surprised. Bucky can’t help but smile when he sees Steve, despite the great offence this so-called breakfast is causing him. “You’re eating Lucky Charms.”

Bucky can’t tell if that’s for him or Amelia. He feels a cavity coming on already, but she’s digging in. “Do you want to share?” Bucky offers. He’s eaten enough of it to count as a meal, which means he can now find a way to dispose of it.

“Nice try,” Steve passes by them to make coffee instead. “I’m used to eating what they don’t, but I’ll pass.” He offers Bucky a wink, which is - just obscene, honestly, it’s not even 8am and Steve can’t do that to him. While he’s sitting there in three-day-old clothes like a damn slob, Steve is showered and wearing-

Well. Bucky’s not sure what the look here is. Steve’s in jeans, which isn’t new for him, but they look old. So does his shirt - it’s got a faded pattern on it that Bucky can barely make out, and it’s covered in splatters of paint. He looks even more casual than usual, and Steve’s dad-style is pretty damn casual.

“Don’t you have work?” Bucky asks, forcing another mouthful of marshmallowy suffering down. Amelia’s clued onto him, and her own rapid eating pace has slowed. He smiles at her, as if he’s enjoying himself.

Steve looks at Bucky like he’s an idiot. “I’m helping with the house.”

Bucky pauses. “I thought you were kidding.”

“Why would I joke about that?” Steve places a mug in front of Bucky, and his hopes are up because he can smell coffee, but it’s tea again. This is prison food. Lucky Charms and tea. Bucky says thank you, even though he doesn’t really feel like tea, and takes a sip.

Amelia finishes off her bowl and proudly shows Steve before running off to get dressed. The Lucky Charms must fuel the endless energy she has. At least she’s using up all that damn sugar.

Once she’s gone, Bucky takes another mouthful and goes to tip the cereal in the bin. “I thought you were being nice to me because I was crying in the emergency room.” Bucky realises once he gets there that he can’t hold the bowl and scoop out the poorly measured ratio of cereal to milk. It’s just one congealed mass now.

“You were crying in my car when I offered, I think,” Steve amends, leaning against the counter and holding a coffee and watching him _suffer_ , the smug bastard.

Bucky wishes he had a comeback that wasn’t “ _fuck you_ ,” but it’s too early for his brain to function and he’s still trying to hide the evidence of his uneaten breakfast in the trash, so he just scowls.

“I was serious. You said you need to get it finished, so,” Steve answers with a shrug, as if he’s just done something mundane for Bucky, like checked his mailbox while he was away for a few weeks.

He’s basically saving Bucky’s ass, because - as he’d said before - he can’t _afford_ this. He also can’t afford to have Steve right next to him for however long it takes to finish the house, because he’s hopelessly gone on the other man already and this would only make it harder.

Thankfully, Bucky is spared the awkwardly heartfelt moment by Amelia returning to the room like a hurricane: loud, blustery, impossible to ignore. “It’s time to go!” She announces with a flourish, backpack on her back, and Steve blinks at her.

“Is it?” He asks, and Amelia hits Steve with such a disdainful look that Bucky is hurt on his behalf.

“Bucky and I are walking Sarge to school,” Amelia states primly, and then she’s got her shoes on and is waiting impatiently by the door.

Bucky puts his still-full bowl by the sink - that’s Steve’s problem now - and toes into his own shoes. Amelia is wearing a jacket but he’s not, and she thankfully doesn’t mention it this time, because he doesn’t want to stink up Steve’s things any more than he already has. “Is that alright?” Bucky asks, waiting by the door where he hung Sarge’s lead yesterday on a coat hook.

Steve’s face, months ago, would’ve been some horrified angry mess. Bucky’s pleased to see that now the reaction is almost impartial, like he could take or leave whatever’s happening. He doesn’t look afraid of Bucky taking his child - he’s probably more afraid of Bucky breaking himself on the fifteen-minute walk to and from school.

“Have fun, then,” Steve answers at last, “I’ll go wake Emma up.”

—

When they get to school - Amelia’s read out loud her persuasive text for him, on crumpled white paper with words slanted due to a lack of writing lines, but she wants the teacher to edit it - Bucky ties Sarge up to a post outside the school. There are a few other dogs there, spaced out so that they don’t snap at each other. Sarge, rather than pick fights, tries to lure helpless humans in to giving him pats and letting him lick them. Bucky’s already heard one child’s delighted squeak as he walks Amelia through the gates.

When they get to class, Mrs Webb remembers him. She smiles and makes small talk - particularly about his arm, which he sheepishly laughs off as a stupid accident. Which it was, really.

“Make sure you get your dad to put Bucky down in the office as someone who looks after you, just in case he comes to pick you up during school,” Mrs Webb instructs Amelia while Bucky is within earshot, looking at some of the artwork displayed on fishing lines across the room.

Amelia agrees enthusiastically, then is waving her writing in the teacher’s face. Bucky doesn’t have the heart to tell Amelia or the sweet woman that he’s not hanging around long enough to be anyone’s emergency contact.

Instead he ducks out when the bell rings - Amelia stops him to wrap around his middle before finding a colourful dot on the ground and sitting on it, arms and legs crossed - and collects Sarge for the walk home.

—

Emma is up and dressed when Bucky gets in the back door, and Sarge is sniffing his way through the Rogers’ garden. “I figured I’d leave him here, since we’re going over to my place soon.” Bucky says, to explain away the dog running frantically from one end of the yard to the other.

“I don’t mind,” Steve says flippantly, testing the temperature by dipping his finger in some mush he’s pulled out of the microwave to feed Emma. “Do you want to tell me what needs doing in the house?”

Bucky sits down, still not sure whether this is a joke or not, and looks seriously at Steve. “You really don’t have to do this.”

“Bucky,” Steve answers, just as seriously, though he’s spooning extra-mushy porridge into Emma’s mouth which somewhat defeats the purpose. She’s saying the same nonsense word over and over, making grabby hands for the bowl, so Bucky figures that word means food. God, she’s gotten so _big_ since he’s lived there. The way kids progress and grow is astounding. “I have got the next three weeks off work, minimum, so if you make me sit in this house and do _nothing,_ I will go crazy.”

That feeling, Bucky can relate to. He’s a worker, too. So Steve has, in a way, trapped him into accepting help. “How did you get time off so quickly?” Bucky asks instead, thinking back to where he’d left his to-do notebook in the house. It may have been on the porch, which means it could have gotten destroyed during his absence. That wouldn’t be good.

“None of your business,” Steve responds, wiping Emma’s face with his thumb. “You go on ahead and start getting things ready. I’ll be there soon.”

—

Sarge is reluctant to leave and so is Bucky, but he takes his phone, keys, and dog back to his home. Going inside, it feels huge and empty - especially compared to how warm and homey Steve’s house is. Bucky’s notebook, thankfully, is still on the kitchen counter, and he runs a finger down the long line of things left to do.

Painting is the big one - once the interior is painted, they can rip up the carpet and sand and varnish the hardwood planks underneath. It’s not necessarily a fun job, but with an extra set of hands (to add to his half-set), they should be able to get through it in the next month. Bucky crosses off painting the exterior from the list, because _fuck that_ , and considers trying to find someone to finish the cleaning job he managed to screw up in such spectacular fashion.

By the time Steve is coming over, Emma and toys in tow, the walls are labelled with small pieces of masking tape as to what colour Bucky wants them. He’s got painters tape set out on the floor, as well as a stack of old, well-used drop sheets - despite the fact that he’s going to bin the carpet later anyway. It’s just a habit at this point.

“Have you painted a room before?” Bucky asks, once Emma’s set up on one of her playmats.

Steve looks incredulously over at him. “Yes?” He answers, though it’s more question than statement, and Bucky sighs.

“I mean - not a fancy mural, just a regular off-white wall,” Bucky elaborates, because _obviously_ Steve has painted walls before. Bucky has seen Amelia’s bedroom.

“I have painted a wall, yes,” Steve confirms, smiling at Bucky like he’s still a little bit of an idiot.

“Right,” Bucky says, and fidgets, before turning to the tins of paint he has lined up. Most of them are in varying shades of grey, and he’s labelled the front with the same masking tape as on the walls. “So I’ve got these three shades I want through the house, and I’ve labelled the walls with what colour I want them to be.” He’s been toying with a paintbrush, and gestures at each one in turn. “Winter mushroom, Accord, Highgate.” Paint always has such ridiculous names.

Steve nods along as each tin is named, then goes to inspect the wall with matching name on it - Bucky’s sloppy handwriting and tear job on the masking tape obvious. “Right, so I’ll just - get started, shall I?”

The way Steve says it - so sincerely - just goes to reinforce that this is something that’s _actually_ happening, as if the fact that Steve is here at all does not attest to that. Bucky awkwardly clears his throat. “I’ll - if you can lay the tape and do the cutting in, I can start rolling.”

“Bucky, you broke your arm three days ago,” Steve’s eyebrows are pulled down in a concerned frown. “You can just rest.”

“Steve-,” Bucky begins, but he’s abruptly cut off by Steve throwing a roll of masking tape at him. It bounces off his chest (the right side of it, Steve has good aim), and lands on the floor.

“ _Stop it_ ,” Steve’s picking up his own roll of tape, pulling out a length of blue to lay down along the skirting boards. “Go label something else and let me work.”

Instead of doing as he’s told, because Bucky’s always been kinda bad with authority (until Winnie’s _Mother Voice_ gets involved, then he folds like a cheap suitcase), he just hovers in the middle of the room. Steve does his level best to ignore Bucky, the only sounds in the room Emma’s attempts at talking and the squeal of tape being peeled away from itself.

Once it’s clear that Bucky is still awkwardly standing there, Steve turns around with an exasperated sigh. “If you’re going to stand around and not do anything, the least you could do is entertain me.”

And while Steve has (clearly) a multitude of good high school stories compared to Bucky’s rather tame adolescence, Bucky sits down on the floor next to Emma and starts to talk. It’s not like his entire life story is particularly good or entertaining, but it’s something to do while Steve preps the room and then starts the first coat of the light grey paint. It also doesn’t help that Steve wears old painting clothes that may have once fit his chest, but no longer do, and Bucky finds himself covering up his distraction by rattling one of Emma’s toys whenever he loses his train of thought.

—

The days of work – even though Bucky isn’t doing a whole lot to help – means that by the time night falls, the pair of them fall into bed not long after the kids. The bedsharing thing has gotten easier in that it’s expected now, and they move around each other with a strangely familiar ease: they get changed and brush their teeth and Bucky checks everything is locked whilst Steve showers (and tries not to think about Steve _showering_ ).

He always beats the other man to bed, because Steve will always do a precautionary check on both of the girls just as he’s about to go to sleep. Bucky hopes that, as it continues, Steve will be less awkward when he hops into bed.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen. Steve always sticks strictly to his side of the bed, the right-hand side,, saying good night and switching the light off. Bucky, in an attempt to respect Steve’s choices, also keeps very closely to the left-hand side of the bed.

Being the one putting in all the hours of manual labour means Steve’s first to actually fall asleep, and Bucky listens for the easing of his breathing that signals he’s gone.

Which means it’s time for Bucky to relax, to let his legs and arm move so that he’s more comfortable. Being single for so long – _ouch_ – Bucky’s used to spreading out in his bed, and he feels constrained by gluing himself to one position. Steve is maybe the same, or maybe the spectre of Peggy still lingers there, because once he starts to snore softly he also starts to sprawl outwards. His movements are not like Bucky’s, in the interest of shifting about to get comfortable – he’s a plant turning to the sun, seeking Bucky’s warmth to leech with his own body.

He should feel worse about indulging it, this meeting in the middle, but the time between going to bed and falling asleep is always somewhat removed from reality. Each and every morning, it feels like a dream when the alarm wakes him – his body retains the heat from Steve’s, his skin prickles where it had touched the other not long ago.

Bucky’s body – because it hates him, probably – then starts to stir before the alarm each morning. It leaves him there, stuck in a special kind of torment: the kind where Steve Rogers is wrapped around him in some way, snuffling against his collarbone or with his fingers brushing Bucky’s hip or his hair filling Bucky’s nose, so all he can smell is _Steve_.

If he turns his head on most mornings, his mouth would be pressed to at least one part of Steve’s head. He could wake the other man with a kiss, or a word whispered into the shell of his ear. Bucky sincerely hopes Steve never wakes in those moments, because he’s always embarrassingly flustered – and covering his face with the pillow becomes a way to avoid the mortification, rather than avoid being awake (though it serves a double duty).

Bucky doesn’t even stop to consider that, on the weekends, there will be no alarm to shatter the peace. On a typical morning, Bucky gets five to ten minutes of sleeping Steve to enjoy or curse before there’s a shrill noise jarring him fully into reality.

Instead Bucky gets to wake slowly on that Saturday, breath rustling the hairs that tickle his nose in turn. Steve’s drooling against his shoulder, which should be gross but is actually so painfully sweet that Bucky wants to die. His hand is pinned beneath Steve’s body, and he indulges himself by curling it around to rest on the small of Steve’s back.

If he asked, would Steve let him do this? Even if he was no good for the girls, could they have these moments, if nothing else?

Then Steve starts to stir, and Bucky is actually pinned so he can’t _go_ anywhere. He hears Steve’s breath catch as he crosses out of his dreams, and feels the hand move from across his torso to wipe at his mouth.

Steve makes the noise Bucky normally does when he wakes up, an annoyed whine.

“We don’t have to get up,” Bucky answers into the top of Steve’s head, hand still against his back, hoping his fantasy of domestic bliss will hold just a little longer past waking.

Steve makes a surprised noise and is then pulling back from Bucky – eliciting a similar whine from Bucky. “Sorry,” Steve says in a voice that is _especially_ sleep-wrecked, and Bucky wants to cry. His body isn’t exceptionally good at telling the difference between _another_ kind of hoarse, and it’s already overexcited by the proximity of Steve anyway.

“Come back,” Bucky complains, though his right hand is pleased to be regaining blood flow after so long stuck beneath Steve. “It’s early.”

“Bucky – I shouldn’t be,” Steve’s propped himself up on one elbow, and now he gestures at the space between them.

Sure, Steve probably shouldn’t be doing this, but if Bucky doesn’t care what does it matter? “You should,” Bucky answers, reaching up one of his own hands to rub at his eyes. “But if you want to apologise, I could go a coffee.”

Steve looks at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Bucky smiles back innocently.

“Fine,” Steve eventually concedes, but he lays back down, his head on Bucky’s pillow and body close enough that they may as well be touching. “In five minutes.”

Steve, thankfully, falls back asleep and burrows back into Bucky’s body.

—

It’s not a lot, but it becomes routine: Bucky sitting down, making notes in his notebook and talking or singing badly while Steve paints and injects his own brand of brutal commentary into whatever’s being said. When it hits 2:30pm, Bucky gets up and grabs Sarge and wanders off to school to collect Amelia, who always greets him with a hug. They get home and Bucky slowly does chores, helping to fold laundry one-handed or listen to Amelia read and guide her through her maths homework, and Steve - paint-splattered and sweaty - makes dinner. They eat together, Sarge hovers by the door - because Amelia, the convincing little creature, submitted her persuasive text to her father proudly and now the dog lives in whichever backyard Bucky’s in at the time (not like Steve _needed_ persuading, but it didn’t hurt). Then the girls go to bed, Bucky sometimes on bedtime story duty because he can’t get his new plaster cast wet on bath duty, and he and Steve go to bed and lay there with the same amount of awkward silence until one of them passes out and they wake up in some form of entanglement to Steve’s stupidly early alarm.

It’s routine, and Bucky hates it, because every time they finish a room, every time they have an appointment and the doctor says he’s going well, it means he’s one step closer to losing all of it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay they talk about their feelings surprise! ~~and they finally GET TOGETHER look at that EXPLICIT RATING KIDS WE DID IT~~  
>  thank you to my last minute beta Laura for pointing out the parts that made no sense! I'm so very appreciative 💕  
> I have put this fic into a series so that you can subscribe there bc I'd love to do more with the universe after the RBB!  
> the title of the series comes from The Gambler by Fun. which is actually the inspo song for this piece (Home by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeroes just had a v good title lyric)

It’s April, the days are getting warmer, and the group of them - Bucky, Steve, Emma, and Sarge - are sitting on the back porch, enjoying the sunshine whilst Amelia’s at school. Steve’s made sandwiches, because he’s a dad and that’s what dads do, and they’re surprisingly good. Emma’s eating solid food, picking away at a container of avocado and tomato Steve sliced up that morning, though she winds up with more green mush on her face and arms than in her mouth. Sarge has been learning that Emma, unlike Amelia, is not a doggy banquet - he is not to lick all of the food off of her as soon as physically possible. Instead, if he gently lays down and lets himself be patted and cooed at, he will get some of the human food courtesy of Steve.

All morning, Steve has been a dam with a crack in it: Bucky can see him about to burst, but he’s not sure when it’s going to happen, nor what bought it on. He’s content, instead, to sit and eat his sandwich and wait. Steve’s not exactly a patient person, that’s something Bucky’s learned after working with him for a couple of weeks now. Having to wait for paint to dry seems to be beyond his capability, which is thoroughly amusing given how happy he looks when he is painting something as mundane as a light grey wall.

“It’s Emma’s birthday tomorrow,” Steve blurts, halfway through his chicken sandwich, staring at the almost-birthday girl. She’s sitting on the grass, avocado hands pulling at Sarge’s ears, a dainty hat strapped into place on her head (not that she doesn’t attempt to remove it multiple times).

It feels not like the huge tidal wave Bucky had expected, but the first leak, and Steve’s sitting so tense that he’s squeezing some of the filling from between the bread. Whether it’s wishful thinking or something else, Bucky has been avoiding thinking about Steve’s marital status the longer they’ve stayed together, and now he realises why the other man is so upset.

If Emma is turning one, that means it must be close to the date when Peggy passed. It’s the end of April now, and by the time Bucky arrived in September, it was a family of three. Bucky slides closer on the edge of the porch, knees tilting to rest against Steve’s, hoping to help. “I’m sorry,” Bucky offers, in lieu of anything actually useful.

Steve blinks out of his reverie, confusion evident. “Why are you sorry?” Then Steve seems to figure it out, and he doesn’t give Bucky a chance to answer - which is fantastic, Bucky really didn’t want to say aloud “ _sorry about your dead wife,_ ” given he woke up with Steve’s leg across his thighs this morning and enjoyed it far too much. “Oh - no, I-,” Steve attempts to start his sentence a few times, before sighing in frustration and putting his crushed lunch down on the paper bag he’d stored it in. “Emma’s not - she’s adopted.” He finally gets it out in a huff, and looks even _more_ frustrated than before.

Bucky just feels - incredibly confused.

“She’s adopted?” Bucky echoes for clarification, looking at Emma as she rubs her face on Sarge’s head. Sure, he’d never seen the resemblance to Steve, but he had never been one of the people to look at a baby and tell immediately whether they took after their mother or father. Plus, he’d never met Peggy, just seen pictures of her throughout the house, so she could have been a spitting image of the woman as an infant for all he knew.

“Yeah,” Steve says, but that’s still not _all_. He stands up, then sits back down, looking so agitated that Bucky wants to grab him and shake the tension out of him. “This is what I meant when I said you didn’t know me.”

It’s an excellent point. Bucky had never suspected for a moment that Emma was adopted, because it just - didn’t make sense. Not when Steve had Amelia already, and the two girls looked similar enough to pass as sisters. Some siblings looked _nothing_ alike, so it wasn’t too farfetched to believe that Steve had two little girls who looked an acceptable amount of dissimilar to each other.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Bucky says, to try and alleviate the tension. “I want to listen, but if it’s too hard, or something… that’s fine.” He is, in fact, deathly curious about the entire Rogers family, which is looking less conventional by the minute, but he doesn’t want to push Steve too far.

Steve makes a concerted effort to avoid Bucky’s gaze, picking his interlocked fingers to stare at instead as they hang between his knees. “I want to tell you, Buck. I want you to know.” He tells his hands or the ground, something in there, and then takes a fortifying breath. “Peggy and I - Amelia is our daughter. Biologically. And then when she was - three, almost four - Peggy-” Here Steve’s voice cracks, and Bucky wants so badly to wrap the other man up and protect him from whatever’s hurt him.

Instead Bucky tentatively places a hand on Steve’s thigh, squeezing lightly. Steve rattles out a sigh from his clenched body.

“She died. It wasn’t - like anything… anything unusual. She was driving home from work one day, and they - they never figured it out. One of the people driving, her or - or the person in the other car, they just… passed out or fell asleep or something and-,” Bucky can see the water escaping now, rushing faster than the wall can contain - the concrete is splintering, and though Steve’s face is hanging down, Bucky is watching it fall apart. “They both died, so it’s not like there was anyone I could even _blame_ , you know?” Steve laughs bitterly, a wet gasp, at himself. “Which is - a stupid, horrible thing to think. But it just felt so…” He shrugs, holding his hands up and empty.

“Steve,” Bucky aims for a soothing voice, the one he’d used when Amelia had skinned her knee on their walk to school the other morning.

He puffs up, and shakes his head. “No, Bucky - just… let me finish.” Bucky goes to withdraw his hand, which Steve yanks and replaces on his thigh a split-second later, scowling at the ground. “That’s… that’s what happened. And then - after a year or so, I thought… Peggy and I, we’d talked about having another kid one day and…,” he takes another shuddering breath. “I thought it might help. To have someone else to love and care for - we’d been so happy when Amelia was little, it’d been so _easy_ , and I never…”

Bucky lets his thumb rub back and forth in what he hopes is a soothing way, if Steve won’t let him help with words.

“I put in the paperwork and it was - such a long process. Then… then they called, and they had her - almost a year ago. It was a closed adoption, so we don’t know her family, but…” Steve shifts so his cheek is resting on his right palm, turning his head to face Bucky. “I know it sounds horrible, but I - I thought she’d fill the… the hole that was there. And she… she didn’t. She’s like an extra piece that I didn’t know I needed, but it’s still… there’s still something missing.” Steve blinks and stares up at the sky, as if that will help suck the tears back into his body.

For a while they just sit there, Emma’s nonsense conversation with Sarge the only sound in the yard.

“Do you - can I hug you?” Bucky asks lamely, wishing he had both hands available and functioning so he can hold onto Steve tight enough that he maybe feels just a little bit better, just for a while.

Steve nods his head, and they hug sitting down - it’s awkward, and Steve’s damp face is pressed against the side of Bucky’s neck and he’s got a plaster cast against Steve’s spine which _can_ _’t_ be comfortable but-

“I’m sorry for when I kissed you,” Steve mumbles against Bucky’s throat, sending a shudder down Bucky’s spine. “I wanted you so badly, but I’d never… never stopped to think that that was something I could do.”

“What wasn’t?” Bucky breathes back, rubbing his cheek against Steve’s hair, another way to try and give comfort with one arm down.

Steve coughs out a laugh. “Moving on. Being happy - with someone else.” It’s so pitiful and sad - not just sad, but _heartbreaking_ , that someone like Steve Rogers might consider himself unworthy of any romance after Peggy, like he only had that one shot.

Bucky, because he’s an idiot, slides his hand from Steve’s back to touch his cheek. Steve lifts his head, looking miserable and empty, but empty in a good way – like all the pressure that was building has been let out. “I wish I could make you happy,” Bucky replies, sounding more broken than he has any right to given what Steve’s just said, but Steve just closes his eyes and leans in and kisses him.

It’s nothing at all like their first kiss, which was heated and desperate and hazy around the edges from the hours spent drinking. Here, Bucky can taste the salt of Steve’s tears on his mouth, can feel him asking permission, almost. Steve is soft and timid, lips sliding against Bucky’s gently, and Bucky’s hand is still cupping his cheek and holding him there.

The kiss comes to a natural kind of conclusion, as they both need space to breathe past everything that’s been said.

“I know I’m leaving,” Bucky says, and he imagines that Steve flinches in the way that he does every time he considers packing up and moving on. “But - can we…?”

“Yes,” is his immediate answer, too quick, but then Steve looks conflicted and hesitates. For the first time since Emma was brought up, he turns to look at her. “I don’t want Amelia to know,” Steve says after a long time, voice small and tired. “I don’t want to do that to her.”

And of course, Bucky thinks, _of course_ , bad enough that he’s leaving but it would only hurt more to drag a child through his bad life choices with him. Besides, if they were two adults meeting and dating, Steve wouldn’t introduce him to the kids until it was a sure thing. Bucky nods his head, then leans forward to kiss Steve on the cheek.

Steve sags against Bucky again - despite his size, he manages to tuck himself again in Bucky’s neck, body tucked up close to him. They stay there until Emma gets impatient, and then they take an early day. No more work was going to get done anyway.

—

Everything plays out relatively normal for the rest of the day, except how the atmosphere suddenly feels _more_ charged than it did before. When Bucky brushes past Steve, putting away the dishes he has slowly dried one-handed, the both of them pause for a second. It’s like they’re afraid, now, of being caught - all the behaviours that happened before didn’t _mean_ anything because _they_ weren’t anything then. Now that they are – or Bucky thinks they are –, they need to put a massive distance in place so as not to arouse suspicion. Not that anyone could be suspicious - Amelia has a colouring in contest that she’s working at with a terrifying amount of focus, nose almost to the page as she desperately tries to keep inside the line. She’s oblivious to everything around her. Bucky thinks he could lean forward and touch Steve again, intentionally, but kids are like Murphy’s Law - anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, and Amelia will undoubtedly pick the most incriminating moment to lift her head from her shark colouring.

 “If it’s Emma’s birthday tomorrow,” Amelia says levelly over dessert later that night, clearly gunning for something, “do we get cake?”

Bucky should’ve expected this, but he still smirks and turns to look at Steve.

“Yes, we’ll have cake,” he concedes, and Amelia cries out in delight. She’s a fiend for cake. “I’ll have to pick one up tomorrow.”

“I can make a cake,” Bucky offers before his brain has caught up to his mouth, because he can _make_ a cake, but he doesn’t know that he can make a good one. “I mean - I’m not doing a whole lot watching you paint every day.”

Bucky should be offended when Steve looks at him, a mixture of surprise and unease on his face. “I can cook!” Bucky protests, and Amelia giggles, though she probably doesn’t know why. Bucky huffs, and pushes around the scoop of ice cream he’d been allotted.

“You don’t have to, Buck,” Steve says, and his eyes widen a fraction at the nickname. He’s said it plenty of times - yes, Bucky has fallen for him more every single time, no, he can’t explain _why_ \- but now he seems to realise that that’s what it is. A pet name, of sorts.

Bucky’s already dug his hole, so he finishes off with, “but I want to,” and it’s settled. He doesn’t actually want to bake, because cooking and baking are not high on his list of things he enjoys, or things he’s good at, but he wants to do something for Steve. Especially after all Steve’s done for him.

Then it’s back to normal long enough for Amelia and Emma to be put to bed.

When they go to do the same, routine only tides them over long enough to get changed and brush their teeth and do the mandatory safety checks. Then they’re lingering in the space at the foot of the bed, like they have absolutely no idea how to proceed.

Bucky assumes Steve’s had no experience with men - which is a rude assumption to make, since Steve’s been the one to kiss him twice now, but with the way Steve looks around the room and opens his mouth uselessly a few times… well, it’s an assumption. He’d be more than happy for Steve to prove him wrong, but Bucky’s going to be the one to cross the gap this time and hopefully ease him into it.

“You sure this is okay?” Bucky asks carefully as he steps forward into Steve’s space, hand alighting on his hip, ready to pull back if needed. He strokes his thumb over the warm, available skin of Steve’s shirtless torso.

Steve nods his head, no words forthcoming, and so Bucky leans up a little to kiss him. Steve’s hands immediately cup his cheeks, and Bucky wants to cry at how useless _his_ hand is. He wants to touch Steve all over, but he’s running on half the usual amount of hands.

The kiss this time is somewhere between the frantic energy of their first and the chaste emotion of their second. Bucky parts his lips first, and Steve’s obviously kissed before because he takes the invitation and runs with it. He’s a good kisser, actually - he has the right mixture of tongue and teeth that Bucky likes. Steve drags at Bucky’s bottom lip, and he whimpers, just a little, as one of Steve’s hands burrows its way into his hair.

Bucky’s hair’s gotten long since he’s been one-handed. Not that he used to cut it himself, but making a trip to the barber was a lot more work when your arm was out of service. Besides, he’d feel bad going off and getting his hair done while Steve worked away for free on _his_ house.

At this moment, though, he’s glad his hair’s grown out of its usual length, because Steve grips it tight and tips his head back and Bucky’s going to melt into a puddle on the floor.

He’s not a passive participant, not by any stretch, and Bucky gives as good as he gets - pressing up against Steve, fingers digging into his hip, aching for more. Steve moves them about, what with his two arms and greater body mass, and Bucky doesn’t notice he’s being pushed back until his thighs hit the foot of the bed. He breaks apart from Steve, mostly in surprise, blinking up at him. “Subtle,” Bucky notes breathlessly, and Steve laughs against his mouth as he leans in for another kiss.

Being thrown onto Steve’s bed is definitely a fantasy Bucky’s spent a lot of time on, but this is entirely different to that. Instead of being tossed back and climbed over, Steve gently grabs Bucky’s hips and lowers him so he’s sitting. It’s - ridiculously caring, actually, and Bucky laughs at the absurdity of it.

“What?” Steve asks, all visible skin turning a delightful shade of pink, and Bucky brushes a hand over his warm chest.

“Nothing - I just, that was very… gentle,” Bucky explains, hand catching in the waistband of Steve’s sweatpants and tugging him closer.

Steve obediently steps in between Bucky’s legs, and it may not be how the fantasy played out in his head but the fact that this is _real_ means a whole lot more. “You’ve got a broken arm, Buck - Christ, I’m not going to _throw_ you around.”

“But you’ll throw me around when it’s healed?” Bucky counters, and he could watch Steve Rogers just _blush_ for the rest of his life and be happy. He wishes he had a camera to capture this, the way he’s indignantly flustered, almost mad at how easily worked up he is.

“If you want?” Steve offers, and Bucky locks his ankles behind Steve’s knees, squeezing to bring him in a bit closer.

“I do want,” Bucky says - _God_ , does he _want_ \- but he’ll gladly wait until he’s healed. The fact that Steve can see something beyond the cast coming off that isn’t just Bucky returning to his futon is enough to get by on. “What do you want?”

Bucky gives Steve time to think about his answer, but he’s not exactly subtle about what he wants - he’s this close to just rubbing himself off against Steve’s body, what with how _damn good_ it looks. He leans back on his one good arm to admire the sight - Steve, shirtless, pants hanging low over his hips (and they don’t leave a whole lot to the imagination, either).

“It’s been a while,” Steve says after what feels like too long, placing his hands on either side of Bucky’s body and kissing his neck softly. “Just go easy on me, alright?”

Easy. Right. That’s something Bucky can do.

He slides back, still keeping his legs interlocked behind Steve’s, until they’re both on the bed. Steve follows Bucky’s lead but keeps stopping to kiss him, all across his jaw and neck. Bucky’s got his head tossed back and his breathing is uneven.

Easy.

His casted arm is resting on the pillow above his head, safely out of the way, and Bucky has to get creative. He moves his legs up higher so that his ankles knock Steve’s lower back, then arches his hips up to roll them against Steve’s.

The other man makes a sound that is _obscene_ , and Bucky can’t get enough. He hooks his good arm around Steve’s neck for extra leverage, pleased when the other man starts to meet him in the middle.

It does feel very high school, grinding up against each other, not-quite-fully clothed, but Bucky can see the appeal now. It’s not that they’re hiding - not now, at least - but the way the fabric adds extra friction is surprisingly satisfying.

Steve’s stopped kissing Bucky’s neck with any consistency, but he’s instead got his mouth leaving bites and panted breaths wherever it can, and Bucky’s not sure he can take it.

He unlocks his legs at last, ignoring how they cramp from having been stuck in the same position for - well, however long it was - and starts to shove his pants down one-handed. Steve lifts his head when the sloppy rhythm they’d adhered to suddenly disappears completely. He looks confused for a moment, but then he puts two and two together. Steve watches him with a smirk, and Bucky’s beginning to notice that Steve Rogers - once wholesome, overprotective dad - is actually an asshole sometimes. “Need a hand?”

“Take your pants off,” Bucky growls, voice husky with want - with _need_.

Steve, in another impressive show of his ability to follow an order (Bucky will explore that when he has more braincells to devote to it), has them off and tossed to the floor in a second. When he’s disposed of his own sweats, Steve starts carefully pulling Bucky’s down for him, and then they’re naked.

Seeing someone naked for the first time is always an experience, and Bucky gets what he expected and more. Steve is, hands down, the most attractive person Bucky’s ever seen. He draws a finger across the abdominal V muscle Steve has, mouth dry all of a sudden. He looks like a statue. Bucky - who is normally not overly self-conscious - is suddenly embarrassed by how he must look in comparison.

Steve doesn’t give him long to fall into any kind of thought on that topic, because he’s staring at Bucky in awe. He runs a hand over Bucky’s chest, easily keeping himself up on only one hand, admiringly stroking his way across the less-defined muscles of Bucky’s body.

“Good?” Bucky asks, and he mostly means good to continue, but part of him is searching for reassurance.

Steve blinks back to himself and nods. He doesn’t say anything, just catches Bucky’s mouth in a searing kiss as his hand wraps around Bucky’s cock. Bucky breaks the kiss to curse, and Steve makes sure the sound of it doesn’t travel beyond their bodies. Steve’s definitely capable of having Bucky scream the house down, so Bucky needs to find some alternatives to swearing.

Bucky plants his feet into the bed and lifts his hips, turning his head so he can talk without Steve taking his breath. “Both,” Bucky demands, brain beyond the point of forming full sentences now. He arches his hips up, Steve’s hand still fisted tight around him, and tries to convey what his body wants but his brain can’t communicate.

Steve, bless his soul, continues to jerk Bucky off – albeit slower, as he tries to understand what Bucky wants. With a moan that is part-frustration and part-pleasure, Bucky pries Steve’s hand open and physically moves it so that their cocks are touching. If you want a job right, do it yourself, that’s what they say. He closes his hand over Steve’s, which is big enough to grasp both of them at once, and starts to move it up and down.  

Steve’s a quick learner, and it doesn’t take long for him to find - and lose - his pace. Bucky can’t feel anything beyond how _good_ Steve’s hand and dick feel on him - he keeps his eyes open through sheer force of will, trained on Steve’s face. It’s enchanting to watch as his eyes flutter shut, the way he huffs out several short breaths before he’s reaching his breaking point - and then his entire face screws up and he groans, long and low. Bucky follows seconds later, the sight of Steve in the midst of his orgasm enough to bring Bucky over the edge along with him.

There’s a moment of bliss. Bucky tries to luxuriate in it for as long as possible, soaking up the warmth and closeness, until his mind returns to his body. They’re sweaty and sticky - Steve’s no longer holding himself up, but is laying on Bucky’s messy chest.

Bucky kisses the top of Steve’s head, and it’s just as good as he hoped it would be. “We should get cleaned up,” Bucky says, after several minutes spent regaining their breath and sanity.

Steve complains with a muffled whine into the skin of Bucky’s neck. Goosebumps shiver across his skin.

“The light’s on, too,” Bucky adds, prodding at Steve when the cooling mess between them starts to get uncomfortable.

“Fine,” Steve huffs, reluctantly lifting himself from Bucky and disappearing into the bathroom.

He returns with a damp cloth, his own chest already cleaned off, and carefully wipes Bucky down. Bucky can’t string many coherent thoughts together, even after the time he’s had to recover, but he notices how much the softness of Steve makes him feel this horrible pang in his chest.

Thankfully, he’s not left alone too long with that thought. Steve drops the cloth on the floor and switches the light off, feeling his way through the dark back to the bed.

“Good night, Buck,” Steve says, like he normally does, but this time he makes himself comfortable on Bucky’s chest without masking it with the pretence of sleeping on his own side.

“Night, Steve.” Bucky indulges himself in another kiss to Steve’s hair, and he likes to think that he can feel the man smiling into his skin.

—

Bucky’s not a quitter, which is why Steve’s kitchen is currently a horrible mess.

He’s already tried to make the cake once, but he accidentally dropped too much flour into the batter (and on the bench, and on the floor), and had to start over. It’s not his fault that he has one hand - and that he thought tipping an entire bag would be an easy task.

The determination to pay Steve back for all he’s done - and is currently doing, finishing up the master bedroom with its final coat of paint - is stronger than Bucky’s urge to go and buy a cake at the local bakery. That’s how he made it this far, and that’s how he’ll finish, no matter how it looks.

After over an hour - the recipe said prep time of ten minutes, which was a barefaced _lie_ \- there’s a cake in the oven and a timer set for forty minutes later. It’s perfect timing, actually, because Bucky had planned on having the cake cooled and ready to decorate by the time Amelia got back from school. Instead, his delay means that he’s due to leave with Sarge for pick-up duty and therefore won’t spend all afternoon staring at the cake as it bakes.

Bucky shoots Steve a quick text to let him know he’s going to get Amelia, because he knows how the other man will worry otherwise, and gets on his way. Sarge is used to the routine now, and he’s bouncing by the door at 2:15pm every single day. He gets a walk at that time on weekends, too, just so that he’ll stop driving them all crazy.

The pick-up routine is familiar now, but Mrs Webb catches him at the door and hands him a letter on the sly.

“I hope you’ll be able to make it to our end of year assembly,” she says, with a knowing look at the folded paper in his hands. Amelia is too busy chatting with Morgan, who’s been over for a few playdates, and her mother.

Bucky opens it and peeks inside - Amelia’s receiving an award. It doesn’t specify what subject it’s for, but still - it’s an _award_. The feeling of pride that wells up in him is enormous, but brings some guilt with it. Amelia’s not _his_ daughter to be proud of. “I’ll pass it on to her dad,” Bucky says, folding it up and tucking it into his pocket.

“Great, she’ll be so excited to have you both there,” Mrs Webb replies with another kind smile, and Bucky just nods and turns to pry Amelia off of Pepper.

Once they get back home, the oven timer gives them enough time to pop next door and assure Steve they are both still in one piece. When the cake emerges, it looks - surprisingly good. Edible, even. It’s domed up in the middle, but it’s not like Bucky’s tackling some fancy stacked cake or anything. He gently turns it onto a cooling rack while Amelia washes up, then they start to make icing and gather all the sweets out of the pantry to place on top of it.

“This isn’t how Daddy makes it,” Amelia remarks at Bucky’s second attempt at icing, and he’s normally got more patience for Amelia’s ribbing but he’s _trying his best_.

“I’m following the recipe he gave me!” Bucky protests, pointing at the hand-written note on the bench. It shouldn’t be _so hard_. There’s barely three ingredients!

Amelia picks it up and reads it carefully, then points at step two. “You have to use the mixer,” she explains, as if it was that obvious. She jumps off the chair she’d pulled up to the counter to get a better view, digging out a hand mixer from one of the cupboards.

Bucky looks dirtily down at the whisk he’s spent _fifteen minutes_ using, and then cedes victory to Amelia and plugs in the hand mixer.

Finally the icing looks more like icing than the mess Bucky had made the first time, and Amelia tips a whole load of food colouring in to turn it a bright red. “Emma’s favourite colour is red,” she remarks, wisely.

“Right,” Bucky agrees, watching as it turns into a very dark red indeed. Maybe he should’ve put a cap on how much food colouring was allowed in the cake.

With the cake cool enough, it gets moved onto a dinner plate and placed within easy reach of both Bucky and Amelia. He’s not tricking himself into thinking he’s going to have any input into the creative direction of the cake. Bucky’s mostly there to make sure the cake isn’t too overloaded with candy (and also to steal some for himself in the process).

“We’re going to put Emma’s name here,” Amelia says, once she’s covered the cake and her forearms in red icing. She draws the letters _E M M A_ in the icing itself, then points at the gummy bears Bucky had bought, “with those.”

Bucky nods, as if it was a question, and Amelia continues to scowl at him. “Well?” She demands.

“Do you want me to do that?”

He gets an exasperated sigh in response, and a very put-upon, “ _y_ _es_.”

Bucky shakes his head but does as he’s told, arranging the bears in the formation Amelia had requested. While he’s doing that, she’s busy laying out the other candy in the shape of a number one.

They’re just finishing up the cake when Steve and Emma come in. Bucky turns to look over his shoulder, but Amelia’s focused on her work. Steve looks at the both of them, surrounded by icing and candy, and looks like he might just cry. Bucky wishes he wouldn’t do that. It makes Bucky feel like he’s done something horribly wrong.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” Steve says as he places Emma on the floor, who’s now tearing around the house with her newfound walking confidence.

Bucky turns back to finish laying a ring of Skittles around the base of the cake when he hears Steve’s phone camera shutter click. He turns back, looking indignantly at Steve as he grins at the screen of his phone. “What was that for?” Bucky demands, and he identifies the uncomfortable feeling of it as the same guilt he felt when it was suggested he go to Amelia’s award presentation. A sense that he doesn’t _belong_ , in their house or their family or their memories.

“You two look cute,” Steve replies, still smiling, as he leans his head between the two of them to look at the cake. “It’s beautiful.” He adds, turning to kiss Amelia’s cheek. He gets pushed away with an icing-covered hand to the face, laughing and gently nudging Amelia back.

Bucky very badly wants to lick the icing off of Steve’s face. He settles for scraping it off with a finger and popping it into his mouth. Steve watches Bucky suck his finger clean with wide eyes, and Bucky plays it up, just a little - he can be a little shit when he wants to be.

Once his finger is icing-free, Bucky pulls it from his mouth with a satisfied smirk. “Problem?”

Steve’s jaw clenches, and then he shakes his head and disappears, cheeks reddening.

—

They sing happy birthday and Steve takes a heap of photos of Emma putting her hands into the cavity-inducing topping of the cake - a cake smash is the name for it, apparently.

Later, Bucky puts his mouth to use on something much more satisfying than icing.

—

“Can I paint a mural?” Steve asks at a time of day in which no human should be awake. They’ve been sleeping together for four weeks now, and Bucky has to wonder if this is going to be his life now that Steve has acclimatised to his presence. Is Steve the sort of person to pester his partner at all hours? Bucky might be rethinking this arrangement.

Bucky responds with no words, just a groan.

“Yes?”

“Steve, what the fuck?” Bucky asks, cracking an eye open to find the room is pitch black. “What time is it?”

“Just past four,” Steve answers in a whisper, and Bucky groans again.

“You woke me up for this?” Bucky wishes he was more frustrated that Steve’s woken him up, but he’s not. He gropes for Steve in the dark, because it’s disconcerting not having the man like an octopus around his body.

“I went and got Emma,” Steve sounds confused. “I spoke to you five minutes ago.”

“What?” Bucky asks, and then he can feel why Steve’s not laying over him - because Emma’s between them, tiny legs wriggling. Bucky feels her over, as if to check that she’s okay, that she’s not in their bed because something is horribly wrong. Then his brain wakes up a bit more and reminds him that, if something were wrong with Emma, Steve would already be breaking a hundred road rules to get her to the hospital. “I don’t remember.”

Steve kisses his forehead. Bucky lets out a surprised squeak. “You’re cute,” Steve says, then Bucky feels Steve’s hand on his belly. “You asked if I needed help.”

“Hope you didn’t say yes,” Bucky replies, and Steve laughs.

“She’s fine, now she’s with us.” Us. Steve says the word like it’s easy, like it’s normal. “I want to paint a mural on one of the walls.”

“Whatever you want, babe,” Bucky is still half-asleep, and he’d rather like to get back to being fully-asleep. Not that he’s agreeing to shut Steve up – it wouldn’t bother him if Steve painted a mural on one of the walls. Quite the opposite, in fact. Bucky hadn’t wanted to ask - it’d seemed like too much to expect of a man who was already putting in enough free labour.

Steve makes a happy sound, then falls back asleep quicker than any man should be allowed to. Bucky feels drowsy, but stays awake. He feels Steve’s hand on his stomach and Emma beside him, the way she shifts and makes noises in her sleep.

By the time Steve’s alarm goes off, Bucky’s been laying in bed for hours just thinking. He doesn’t have to lay down and think about the fantasies of kissing and touching Steve, because those are something he can have now - behind closed doors, at least. He’s been letting his mind wander elsewhere, over the word _us_ and the connotations of it. Like they’re something that doesn’t have an expiry date.

Steve wakes up and looks irritatingly well-rested. Bucky scowls at him from bed as Steve picks Emma up and goes off to feed her or change her or whatever. He’s still sour when Steve returns, Amelia having been sent to the kitchen to eat toast. She was surprisingly quiet about it, actually. Not like a normal morning at all.

“Why’re you in such a bad mood?” Steve asks, closing the door behind him so he can kiss Bucky without being seen.

Bucky tries his best to stay annoyed, but it’s hard when Steve’s mouth is on his - morning breath and all. “I’ve been awake since four,” Bucky answers when Steve lets him speak. His frown has softened.

Steve looks down at him with feigned sympathy. “Come have a shower. You’ll feel better.”

“You go first,” Bucky mumbles, intent on sulking in bed a bit longer.

“We could go together,” Steve offers with the mischievous look in his eyes that Bucky is helpless to deny. It also means that he’s about to get more than just a kiss, which is enough to have him hauling his tired body upright and into the bathroom.

They go through the motions required for Bucky to bathe now - which is taping a plastic bag around his left forearm, very attractive - and then Steve runs the water. The shower is quite big, all things considered, but Bucky’s not sure he could fit in there along with someone the size of Steve. Not that that is going to stop him from trying.

Bucky enters the shower first, then Steve steps in behind him and closes the door. It’s definitely a tight squeeze, but Bucky doesn’t mind. He’s tired enough that all he wants to do is stand under the spray and let it wash over him. It’s very peaceful, actually, with the warm water running over his body and Steve’s body against his back.

It’s so nice, in fact, that Bucky doesn’t notice what Steve’s doing immediately. There are hands in his hair, he registers that much, but all he does is sigh and lean into the touch. It takes too long for his sluggish brain to associate the hands with Steve, as is the body he leans against - hard length pressing into his back and all.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, wary of breaking the spell. Steve washes his hair then conditions it, hands alternating between massaging the product into his scalp and then rinsing it out with scooped handfuls of water. Once his hair is done, Steve starts to press kisses along the back of his neck, and Bucky reaches his hand back between their bodies to wrap around Steve’s cock.

“God, Buck,” Steve rasps against his ear as he wastes no time thrusting into Bucky’s hand.

Bucky turns around and presses Steve against the tiled wall. “God yourself,” Bucky answers, all irritation gone. He catches Steve’s lips in a very brief, very wet kiss, before dropping to his knees.

Steve’s moaning before Bucky’s even got his mouth on him, but Bucky doesn’t make him wait all that long. Just long enough to look up at Steve from beneath his eyelashes, fluttering them a little dramatically, then he’s taking the other man down to the base. He grips one side of Steve’s ass, squeezing the tight muscle, as he sucks the other man off. Ordinarily, Bucky would like to take his time, but he’s aware that there’s a time limit on this - Amelia has to get to school, and Emma will probably demand something soon enough, as babies do.

Steve’s hand is pulling on his wet hair, dragging his face in on each thrust, and Bucky concentrates on breathing through his nose because Steve isn’t letting up. He can feel Steve lose what semblance of rhythm he has as they keep going, and he knows the other man is close - his hand fists Bucky’s hair, hard enough to pull it out, and Bucky whines around Steve’s cock.

“ _Dad!_ ” Amelia yells, and that’s -

God fucking _damn it_.

“Go away!” Steve yells, voice ragged, and he’s still holding Bucky in place.

“Where’s Bucky? We gotta go!” She complains, and then Bucky can hear the door handle turning.

“ _Amelia_! Shut the door!” Bucky’s pushing himself one handed up from the ground, stumbling to grab a towel before Steve stops him and does so himself. “Go watch cartoons or something!”

There’s silence, then the door clicks back. “Can I watch whatever I want?”

“Yes - just go!” Perhaps Amelia can hear the hysterical edge to Steve’s voice, and that’s why she doesn’t press the issue - perhaps she has the kid-sense that tells her she could get away with anything right now, and she should take advantage of it. Whatever it is, there’s no more talk from outside the door, and it stays blissfully closed.

Bucky’s knees are red, skin pink from the hot water. A kid is a great way to kill a moment, but Bucky’s not letting this ruin his morning. It may have started off bad, but it’s come pretty good, actually.

“We’re going to Home Depot and getting locks for all your doors,” Bucky says as he returns to the floor to finish Steve off.

—

Bucky signs Amelia in late to school, sheepishly citing a family emergency to the school officer who smiles beatifically at him and wishes him a good day.

—

“Can we play something else?” Steve asks, as the second layer of his unknown mural is drying and they’re ripping up the last of the carpet. Emma has now been so active that Steve got her an actual, walled-in playpen so that she doesn’t get in their way. She’s busy watching them from the hallway, hands on the walls of her tiny prison, as if plotting her way out.

Bucky stops partway through his rendition of _Santa Monica_. “What do you mean?” He asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Steve lets go of the edge of carpet he’s holding, hands up in mock-surrender. “I’m not saying I hate your music, we’ve just been listening to the same playlist for weeks now.”

“These are good songs,” Bucky insists, letting go of the carpet, too, so he can gesture at his portable speaker as if it can defend itself.

Again, Steve waves his arms. “I’m not saying they’re not, just - I’ve listened to you sing Foo Fighters every single day. I’m a bit sick of it.”

“ _Everlong_ ’s a good song!” Bucky protests, but he has to give this one to Steve. Just because he listens to the exact same music day in, day out, does not mean anyone else wants to.

“It is!” Steve agrees, though he doesn’t look at all like he _actually_ agrees. “Give me your phone,” he demands, and Bucky reluctantly unlocks it and hands it over.

Part of him is actually quite intrigued to see what Steve picks, now that the choice is his. Music says a lot about a person, and Bucky had assumed Steve - being of a similar age to Bucky - had grown up through the 90s enjoying the same rock music he had. Bucky knows Steve knows all the words to songs Amelia likes. Just the other day he’d caught Steve looking mortified as he sang along with her to _Old Town Road_ in the car. Kids had terrible taste, that they could both agree on.

Eventually Steve finds and settles on a playlist. It takes a moment for Bucky to realise it’s Bob Dylan playing now, and he takes his phone back to check what Steve’s picked. It’s a massive playlist of 70s music, and Bucky regards it with a thoughtful frown, trying to pick where that had come from. It wasn’t that people couldn’t enjoy music that they weren’t alive to experience, it’s just - unusual to be someone’s first choice. Better than current pop, at least.

“You like the seventies?” Bucky asks, locking his phone and then tossing it to the ground beside the speaker. He needs all one of his hands free to help with the carpet endeavour. Steve picks his edge up, and they start to roll it again.

“I grew up with it. My dad was big on seventies music. He had all these records,” Steve answers, keeping the carpet tightly coiled together. “I got them when he died.”

Bucky lets out a slow breath - where hasn’t Steve been touched by death? The more Bucky finds out about Steve, the more he wonders why fate or karma or _whatever_ has something against him. Everything about Steve has this underlying tinge of sadness, and it’s incredible how committed Steve is to finding happiness, given how intent life has been on taking it from him.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, once the carpet is up in one long roll.

He turns to look at Steve, who smiles at him softly. “It’s alright - I was only two when he died, so I don’t remember him that much.”

Steve makes to wave it off, but he pauses uncomfortably, staring at a spot on the floor. Bucky feels deja vu, back to when Steve had told him all about Peggy and Amelia and Emma. The way he’d been so stiff, so tightly-wound, that it was inevitable for him to fall apart. Last time, Bucky hadn’t known where the line was on physical comfort - this time he wraps one arm around Steve’s shoulders where he’s still crouched on the floor.

Bucky’s expecting Steve to work through it, that small moment of grief, because he doesn’t like to share until it’s all too much - but he doesn’t. He clings to Bucky’s back, and he starts to cry.

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky rubs a soothing circle on Steve’s back, his cast curling stiffly over his other shoulder. “Stevie,” Bucky tries, the nickname coming out without thought, as if he’d said it a thousand times before.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, belatedly, pulling his head out of Bucky’s neck. He wipes at his face with one hand, keeping the other twisted in Bucky’s shirt. “I just thought - what if that’s all… all Amelia has, when she’s older? What if she can’t - can’t miss Peggy, because she never knew her?”

Oh. That’s all Bucky can think. “Steve, hey,” Bucky tries to think of something to say, but he doesn’t have anything. It’s likely that Amelia will grow up and say what Steve did, so off-handedly, without realising. How can you miss someone you were never old enough to really know? “She’ll remember Peggy through you,” Bucky says at last - the song playing changes to _Hotel California_ , and Steve hiccups. “You remember your dad when you hear the songs he likes, right?”

Steve nods slowly.

“And she’ll remember Peggy in all the pictures you have and all the stories you tell her.” Bucky can’t even relate, because he’s so lucky to have both of his parents still alive and kicking - and he’s never even _stopped_ to think of himself as lucky.

“Sorry,” Steve repeats, and Bucky kisses the tip of his nose as if it’s a way to scold him.

“Stop being sorry.”

Bucky watches as Steve catches himself from his third consecutive apology. “He liked The Eagles.” Steve offers instead, and Bucky smiles.

“Well, let’s stop talking and start listening.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting emotional because it's almost over!!!! 😭😭😭  
> Thank you to everyone who is still reading along, whether you've been commenting or not. I love you all dearly, and I hope this story is everything you hoped for!  
> Please subscribe to the series to get updates, as I plan a lot of one-shots in this verse!

It’s the first Saturday of May, and the weather is _finally_ approaching an acceptable temperature. Steve’s making lunch, Emma’s having a nap, and Amelia - shockingly - is tired of playing with Sarge. She drops down next to Bucky, who’s going through his notebook one-handed. Steve’s mural is almost done, and though it’s hard to sand the floors with three hands between them, they’re making steady progress. He’s just got to call out someone to finish cleaning the exterior of the house, fix up the garden, and he’s done. He was going to replace the front porch, but Steve went over it with the sander and stained the wood and it looks as good as new so that’s one expense they can avoid.

“Hey, Bucky,” Amelia says, in the tone that suggests she wants something. Now that Steve and Bucky are spending more time together, in a manner of speaking, Amelia’s gotten used to a new level of freedom. If she can’t find Steve or Bucky she knows to watch Emma and knock on the door if she needs anything urgently. She’s starting to grow bold with her requests, and Bucky feels like he’s about to be the subject of one now. “You’re a builder, right?”

“Something like that,” Bucky answers, pinning the page down with his cast to stop it blowing away as he crosses off some items. “Do you need something?”

“Well,” she draws the single word out as long as her breath allows. “Morgan’s dad built her this _really cool_ cubby house, and I thought maybe you could build me one.”

Bucky looks up, confused. Amelia smiles and bats her eyelashes.

“I can’t do a whole lot with my arm like this,” Bucky answers slowly, because he would _love_ to build something for Amelia but he’s somewhat out of order. She probably thinks she’s manipulating ( _persuading_ , she calls it) him into doing something for her, but he really does enjoy creating things. He’s been itching to do so since he hurt himself, but he’s still got two weeks until his last appointment - and Steve, the asshole, has taken more time off work to accommodate.

Amelia gives him the lip quiver that Bucky is, at this point, immune to.

He glances around the backyard. There’s a tree big enough to support a proper tree house, but that would require more dexterity than Bucky can manage right now. What it does have is a low-lying bough they could lean some other branches against to create a cubby requiring less construction and more creativity.

“Why don’t we go on a walk, I think we could work something out,” Bucky offers after some thought.

Amelia gives a victory cry, and races to the back gate. Bucky delays only long enough to tell Steve they’re going out - who complains, because he’s _just served lunch_ , but lets them go anyway.

Sarge isn’t invited on this occasion, and he whines pitifully at the gate until the pair of them are long gone.

They don’t walk far - just down the road to the park Bucky had first spent proper time with the Rogers family. There are plenty of sticks for collecting, including some larger ones that would help hold the structure of the building quite nicely. Amelia winds up being the packhorse of the trip, both arms loaded up with a heavy bundle of branches.

They make two trips just to get them all, and Sarge dutifully picks one to gnaw on by the back door. He’s mad he wasn’t invited, if the way he ignores Bucky is anything to go by.

They go inside and eat cold grilled cheese, and Bucky uses that time to sketch out his design on a blank page of his notebook. “So what you want,” he pauses to take a bite, gesturing with the end of his pen, “is to balance the large sticks here,” he points to two darker lines, representing the biggest, strongest sticks they’d gathered, “and they’ll help keep the rest of it up.”

“Right,” Amelia says, transfixed by the sketch. Bucky may have gone too far, including some dimensions, but they were necessary to ensure both he and Amelia fit inside. Steve is watching them with an amused smile, making no effort to disguise his eavesdropping.

“Then we get the ones with lots of leaves, and if we get some rope we can tie them here,” Bucky draws a line, fans out some sketched leaves over the top of the cubby, “we can have shelter.”

“Uh-huh,” Amelia agrees, wide eyes taking it all in, her sandwich all but forgotten on her plate.

Unfortunately, Steve won’t let them out to play until they’ve _both_ finished eating, and Bucky is actually annoyed at how long it takes Amelia. He hasn’t been so excited to do something like this since he was her age, probably, but now the potential of it is - thrilling. Taking a house and transforming it is such a long journey that it’s hard to see the changes you make, as they’re so gradual, but using his knowledge and skills to create something short-term is exhilarating.

They finally present their empty plates to Steve, and he lets them both go - smiling at Amelia, raising an eyebrow at Bucky. Bucky pokes his tongue out at him, and Steve smacks his ass as he walks past.

Amelia, unlike her father, does _not_ follow instructions well. It doesn’t really matter, though, because in the end they’re leaning sticks up against a still-attached stick and hoping for the best. It collapses at least four times as they build, and Steve and Emma come out to supervise for a while. Bucky gets the feeling that Steve is taking photos of him again - he gets that feeling a lot, mostly when he’s doing something for the kids, and he still feels lingering guilt over it.

It’s late afternoon by the time they duck (well, Bucky ducks, Emma walks) into their new home. Amelia’s swept the grass so that it’s as clean as grass gets, and she sits with her back leaning against the tree trunk.

“Look at our house!” Amelia says, looking up admiringly at the sky as it peeks through the gaps in the branches. It wouldn’t be great in winter, that’s for sure.

“It’s pretty good,” Bucky agrees, sitting cross-legged and hunched over so he doesn’t accidentally take a supporting branch out.

Amelia is quieter than normal as she sits and looks around, eyes catching on each part of the structure admiringly. “We should have dinner here! And we can have Dad and Emma over.”

“We sure can,” Bucky agrees, and Amelia climbs over him to get out and invite the rest of the family to eat with them. He takes the foot in his right shoulder as part and parcel of his new role as -

Well.

Whatever his new role is.

—

They don’t all fit in the cubby, so Amelia settles on Bucky’s lap against the tree, Emma lays on the floor between them, and Steve sits in the doorway. They eat macaroni and cheese, because Amelia’s getting everything she wants today, and admire the stars through the twigs and leaves. Steve is on Emma-duty, catching her every time she stands and makes a grab for one of the sticks, which is inevitable for a child.

Somehow the structure lasts through dinner and dessert, and then they say goodnight to it and hope for the best.

Amelia spends a long time in the bath getting the dirt from her skin and the twigs from her hair. She hugs Bucky extra long before she goes to sleep.

Bucky reminds himself to keep breathing.

—

When Bucky walks into the bedroom, having done the child check, Steve pins him against the door. Their mouths are crashing together before Bucky can think, and he makes a surprised - but not displeased - noise into Steve’s mouth.

Steve reaches around Bucky to turn the lock on the new doorknobs they bought, and Bucky lets out a breathy laugh.

“I want to,” Steve gets so far with confidence, and then his skin colours, because - try as he might - he can’t fight his body when it comes to being embarrassed. “Sleep with you.”

“We’ve been doing that for a while now,” Bucky says smartly, but before he can finish Steve’s sliding a knee between Bucky’s leg, pressing hard against him. Bucky is unbelievably turned on, and laughs again, though it’s more of a broken moan when Steve presses him harder. “I want to sleep with you, too, you idiot,” Bucky says, writhing a little against Steve’s leg, grinning up at him.

Considering they’ve been together well over a month, Steve’s really got Bucky wrapped around his finger. They can get in a quickie before school and drop Amelia off on time now. Bucky’s never fit with someone quite as well as he fits with Steve.

“What do we need to do?” Steve asks, just holding Bucky in place with his thigh. He’s given up on dwelling on his nerves, and is instead pulling Bucky’s shirt carefully off and throwing it to the ground.

Bucky smirks, cants his hips forward. “Carry me to bed and I’ll tell you.” They both know that Bucky’s posturing won’t stand up - if Steve tells him to walk, Bucky will sprint and leap onto the bed.

Whether Steve’s indulging him, or he’s as gone on Bucky as Bucky is on him (a man can only dream), he dips one arm under Bucky’s thighs and the other behind his back. Pulling Bucky into a bridal carry clearly doesn’t put any strain on Steve’s impressively built body, and Bucky just enjoys the ride. It only takes Steve four steps to get to the bed, and with a smile he drops Bucky onto the mattress.

The noise Bucky makes is painfully like Amelia’s delighted squeal, but then Steve is on top of him and kissing Bucky so hard he has no oxygen left to make any sound.

Kissing Steve never gets old, because he never _lets_ it get old. There’s no routine to the way Steve kisses, it’s always different, and Bucky just tries to keep up. The only constant is that it always leave Bucky breathless and achingly hard.

“Shirt,” Bucky says, and it’s off, just like that. Steve knows by now that Bucky likes to admire his chest - especially after so many instances of Bucky, when they have the time, mapping each inch of flesh with his fingers and lips. So Steve gives him this, allows Bucky to wriggle under his body further and kiss one of Steve’s nipples, hardening it with his tongue. Bucky palms the other, feels Steve’s heart thunder beneath his palm, almost in time with his own racing pulse.

“I got,” Steve’s voice is strangled now, “lube. Condoms.”

They’d talked one night about doing more together - not that their hands and mouths weren’t doing the job, because Bucky’s never been so satisfied in his life, but it felt like the next step. More intimate. Steve had asked with the lights out what they might need - obviously there was no risk of pregnancy, but better safe than sorry had always been Bucky’s approach to sex, so he recommend condoms anyway. Lube, naturally, was a given.

Still, it shouldn’t be so hot that Steve’s prepared.

Bucky pushes out of his pants one-handed as Steve gets up to duck into the bathroom, coming back with his prizes. “Pants, too,” Bucky instructs as he picks up the lube and opens it.

Seeing Steve naked is one of the greatest gifts of this earth, and Bucky doesn’t bother hiding his admiring glance before nodding to the bed. Steve sits stiffly on the edge of the mattress, like he’s in the doctor’s office or something. Bucky rolls his eyes and puts the lube down to shove at Steve’s shoulder, knowing by now that sometimes brute force is the way to get the job done.

Steve lays back, propped up on his elbows. His eyes are wide as he watches Bucky work, looking part aroused, part concerned. Bucky leans down to kiss the corner of Steve’s mouth, hoping to abate some of his worry. “You okay?” Bucky checks in, and Steve nods, lifting one arm to grab Bucky’s hip. He holds on tight, like Bucky is going to disappear if he doesn’t, and Bucky indulges the feeling of being wanted as much as he wants.

Stretching himself out is something Bucky’s done before, but it’s nowhere near as fun as when the other person does it for you. He lays his hand over Steve’s on his hip, then pulls it up and holds it out, cupped, in front of him. Steve is like one of Amelia’s toys - pliant and posable, happy to remain wherever Bucky places him. With only one hand, he has to use his teeth to rip the plastic seal off the lube before he flicks it open and pours it onto Steve’s open palm. The cold of the liquid makes Steve gasp, and Bucky watches as he merely sits there, frozen in place.

“You’re going to want those to be covered,” Bucky offers helpfully as he closes the lid and tosses the lube to the side, watching where it lands so he can access it later. Having ready access to lube is something he’s come to appreciate. With free fingers, he mimics sliding them along each other until Steve follows along. Bucky can see things falling into place in Steve’s eyes, the way his eyes drift down Bucky’s body to settle at a spot that’s definitely not his eyes.

With Steve’s hand shiny in the lamplight, Bucky smiles. “Now you’re going to start with one,” he holds one finger up as an example, “and slowly add more.”

Steve’s shaky breath looks like it could be attributed more to his excitement than fear now, what with how his pupils are dilated - his eyes are basically black. “It’s not going to hurt?” He asks, sitting up and using his other hand to tug Bucky further up on his body. Steve leans back against the headboard while Bucky sits across his hips, intentionally keeping his body on one _particular_ part of Steve’s.

“No,” Bucky says - he could offer a better explanation, but he has a feeling he’s going to want to save his breath and voice if his knowledge of Steve is anything to go by. The other man has him crying out when they grind together fully clothed - he’s going to need a pillow to bite down on if the kids are going to get any sleep.

Bucky lets Steve take his time. He’s not one for waiting, but Steve’s finger is circling his hole and it’s still good even if it’s not good _enough_. Bucky tries not to push back down against Steve’s finger but fails - thankfully, it gets the point across to Steve. He pushes in to the second knuckle, and Bucky sighs in satisfaction.

“Another?”

On cue, Steve - with increasing confidence - slides a second in to join the first. The stretch is there now, and Bucky rolls his hips, feeling Steve inside him in a way he’s previously only dreamed about. It’s been a while - long enough that the stretch of it is somewhat painful to begin with - and Bucky’s glad that Steve’s slowly building up to the main event here. With little more instruction from Bucky, he slowly starts to spread his fingers apart - a quick learner indeed. Bucky still has to prompt him to keep going - with his eyes closed he can _feel_ Steve’s concerned look, but Bucky’s groan at the sensation of a third finger puts Steve at ease.

Bucky could do this all day and not get bored. Steve’s moving just enough to keep him on edge, but not pushing him further. It’s the best form of torture, like scratching at an itch but being unable to get the position just right. If he keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend this is the rest of his life: Steve’s body under him, in him, _around_ him, their figures bathed in warm lamplight, everything still and quiet and asleep except for them. They’re the only two people in the universe, for as long as he lets himself believe it.

“Buck?” Steve interrupts his thoughts, voice strained, and Bucky opens his eyes.

Steve’s still there, and he’s looking at Bucky with a gaze so heated that he feels like he might melt beneath it and that’d be okay. “Let’s,” Bucky attempts, voice cracking. He’s leaned forward, body propped up on his arm to give Steve a better angle to work with. It’s not the easiest way to get the job done, but Bucky wanted to look at Steve - and how well did that work out? He’d had his damn eyes closed for most of the time. As if to apologise, Bucky kisses Steve’s cheek, and reluctantly draws his body away from the other man’s.

Bucky gets his balance, straddling Steve’s thighs again, and gropes for the condom box. He passes it to Steve, because he can get the job done much quicker than Bucky, as he picks the lube up again. Bucky takes it as a compliment that Steve practically tears the box open, tossing everything else to the side in his haste to prepare. Bucky’s eyes stay glued to Steve’s cock as he rolls the condom down over it, then he’s pouring lube into his hand and grabbing Steve in a tight fist. “Gotta get you ready, too,” Bucky doesn’t even bother trying to hide his wrung-out voice now - he’d like to see _anyone_ sound normal after having Steve Rogers three fingers deep inside their ass.

He jerks Steve a couple of times, trying not to get lost in the way Steve bites his own lip to stop from crying out. They need to get a babysitter, he thinks distantly.

Bucky wouldn’t say that he’s satisfied with the job he did on Steve so much as he can’t wait any longer, and holds the other man in position. This feels like the moment to say something significant - he can think of something, words that’ve bubbled up unbidden and have been squashed down, but they’re too much. Instead of saying anything, Bucky slides his body down onto Steve’s and moans long and low.

Steve grabs Bucky’s hips hard enough to bruise as they both adjust to the sudden sensation. No matter how much preparation they put into it, nothing could prime Bucky’s body adequately for the size of Steve. He shifts his hips - hears Steve’s breath catch - and when he’s happy with their positioning, starts to move. Steve is tentative for so long, and then the hands on Bucky’s hips start to move him - Steve’s body thrusts up to meet his, and very quickly Bucky’s doing nothing, he’s just along for the ride. He does keep one, steadying hand on Steve’s chest, head hanging as he tries to breathe through the way Steve is pounding into him.

“God, Stevie,” Bucky manages between thrusts, loving the way Steve brightens at hearing his nickname. “You’re so - _fuck,_ ” Bucky is the sort of guy to run his mouth in all situations, sex included, but Steve is making it hard to string two words together. He lets his knees splay out further, bringing him down harder on Steve’s body, the relentless movement leaving stars in his vision. “Don’t stop,” Bucky thinks he’s saying, or maybe he’s just making noise, or maybe he’s doing nothing at all.

Steve does the opposite of stop - he goes harder. Bucky can hear his ragged breaths, feel as his stomach tenses under Bucky’s hand. The only warning he gets is Steve gasping out his name, and then his orgasm is shuddering through Bucky. Feeling it inside him is an otherworldly experience - Steve’s hips jerk through it, and Bucky’s so close himself that he lifts his hand and hopes his cramping hips can sustain him long enough to finish himself off.

They do.

Unlike normal, where one of them (usually Bucky) insists on getting cleaned up, that all feels like too much effort. Bucky doesn’t know how he winds up on Steve’s chest, but he’s there, arms holding him safely in place. Bucky drifts off, lulled by Steve’s deep breaths, happier than he thinks he’s ever been.

—

Emma’s good at sleeping through the night, and until now, Bucky hasn’t appreciated how tired Steve was those first few months of knowing him.

She catches croup from somewhere - no idea where, since she’s only around the three of them and none are unwell - but her harsh, barking cough keeps them up most of the night. Bucky’s still one-armed for a bit longer, so he’s no help when it comes to soothing her. He just has to lay in bed and wait for Steve to get back - then hold the other man so he can get some rest before Emma inevitably wakes them up to start the cycle all over again.

They’re into day three, and she’s starting to improve but there’s still the horrible sound of her cough echoing through the house. Steve comes back to the bedroom around five in the morning, turns his alarm off, and buries his face into Bucky’s chest. Bucky immediately peppers the top of his head with kisses, rubbing Steve’s back.

They don’t even get a chance to fall back asleep - which is saying something, since Steve falls asleep within seconds - but the sound they hear is not Emma’s horrible hacking. It’s Amelia’s voice, wailing “ _Daddy!_ ” through the house.

Steve makes a sound that’s almost a sob into Bucky’s chest. Bucky can’t imagine how tired he is, but he has a rough idea - he wakes up each time Steve does, after all. He just doesn’t do anything but stay there, staring at the ceiling, his own heart breaking a little at the pain Emma must be in.

“I’ll go check on her,” Bucky says, and Steve doesn’t even have the energy to protest.

All he does is mumble a, “thank you,” into the space where Bucky’s head was. Bucky hopes he’s getting at least another hour or two of rest out of this.

Before going to Amelia - who he can hear crying, and it tugs him towards her like an invisible rope - Bucky makes a point of pulling on some pants. The combination of Steve and the warm weather have him sleeping naked… well, every single night, which isn’t great for soothing a child. He stumbles into them, and they feel too big so they might be Steve’s, but the drawstring pulls them in enough to make do.

Bucky gently pushes past the _Amelia Sarah_ door, spotting her sitting on her bed. She’s huddled up, the last of the moonlight through the window turning her hair a glittery silver. Amelia’s crying into her hands, and only glances up once Bucky starts to walk towards her. She looks confused, and Bucky worries she’s going to cry even louder for Steve.

Instead she stands and wraps her arms around his middle. Bucky doesn’t think because his brain is still in bed, sleeping, so he pats her shoulder. “Hey, sweetie, what’s wrong?” Bucky crouches down so he’s at Amelia’s level, brushing tears from her cheeks with his thumb.

“I -,” Amelia starts, then hiccups, and starts to cry again. “I had - a scary dream,” she finishes with a sniffle, grasping his wrist to keep it close to her.

“Honey, you’re alright,” Bucky says, and kisses her on the cheek. “You’ve got me and Dad to keep you safe.”

Amelia continues to cry quietly, even as Bucky tries every trick he has: he rubs her back and kisses her forehead and uses all the sweet pet names he can think of. It seems like time’s the only thing that’s helping, as her tears slow, and finally stop.

Seeing that she’s done crying, save a few last sniffs, Bucky moves to stand. Amelia’s hand is still wrapped around his wrist, and she pulls him back down. “Don’t go, Bucky.”

Bucky wants to tell her he’s not going, but that’s a lie, at least in the long term. “We need to get some more sleep,” Bucky explains, and Amelia just looks mournfully at her tiny bed.

“Can I sleep with you and Daddy?”

Bucky knows the girls sleep in their bed sometimes. Emma does it more than Amelia, and Steve always kicks him and tells him to put some clothes on first, but Bucky is reluctant to say yes on this particular occasion. Right now, Steve needs sleep, and he doubts having two extra bodies in the bed is conducive to achieving that goal.

“What if I stay with you?” Bucky offers at last, muffling a yawn in his shoulder.

Amelia hesitates only momentarily, then nods and scrubs at her eyes with one tiny fist. “Okay,” she sounds unsure, but willing to give it a try - Steve will probably appreciate that.

Bucky lays down first, being the larger of the two, and he fills the bed out almost entirely. Amelia doesn’t care that there’s no space for her, because she lays down on Bucky’s chest. It’s almost exactly like the way Steve does - her fine blonde hair tickles his nose, and Bucky notes sleepily that they use the same shampoo. They both smell like sweet, green apples.

He doesn’t think he falls asleep, but when Bucky wakes up it’s because there’s sunlight coming in through the open blinds. Amelia is sound asleep on his chest - she drools, just like her father - and Steve is standing over them, smiling. He leans down and kisses first Bucky’s forehead, then Amelia’s cheek, mumbling a, “good morning,” as he goes.

And it is a good morning.

—

Amelia tries to wrangle a second day off school, but she’s flat out of luck. Taking the previous day off due to exhaustion on parts of all members of the family wasn’t a decision that Steve had made lightly, and it wasn’t happening again. It had been nice, though, using the previous day to lounge about, take Sarge on a long, meandering walk, and generally avoid work, but that can’t last forever.

The sanding has taken longer than expected, and they’ve had to replace a huge section of the flooring that was too damaged to revive. People appreciated the rustic look, but there was _rustic_ and then there was _falling apart_.

Bucky has been tasked with a new job, too, which is proper babysitting duty. Emma was allowed to follow them around the house as they painted in her tiny baby prison, but now that they were - well, now that _Steve_ was - using stains and varnish, she wasn’t allowed in the house. The paint had been fine as Emma had just been plonked next door with an open window as they worked, but the stain and varnish fumes - particularly after she’d only just recovered from her bout of croup - wouldn’t be good for the little lungs.

Which left Bucky with Emma, who he didn’t trust himself to manage, sitting in his backyard.

But Steve trusted him, and that had to count for something, right?

Bucky sits on the porch, staring at Emma in her tiny sunhat. She just stares right back at him, gummy smile and scattered teeth on display.

Well, he should do something useful, at least. Bucky glances around at the backyard, which is yet another thing he wants to work on. The lawn is lush and green following the rain of winter and spring, but weeds are creeping through it - and the garden beds are merely breeding grounds for more weeds.

“Do you know how to pull weeds?” Bucky asks sarcastically, and Emma responds, chirping out some nonsense words.

“Right, come on, then,” Bucky picks her up and she laughs, grabbing for his hair. It’s in desperate need of a cut, but Steve’s been fisting his hand in it for so long that Bucky isn’t sure he wants it to go anywhere.

Babies are prone to getting dirty, so Bucky doesn’t feel bad as he places Emma next to him in the garden bed. He doesn’t have any gloves, but he’s seen Amelia _literally_ construct mud castles in the backyard and Steve’s just watched it happen with a look of mild annoyance, so it should be fine.

“Here’s what you do,” Bucky instructs, then starts to teach. Emma can’t understand a word he’s saying as he shows her how to pull the weeds up, grasping them as close to the ground as possible to make sure the root comes out, not just the stem. She watches him do it, though, ripping out the towering plant and lay it off to the side. “Just like that,” Bucky says at last, smiling as Emma leans forward and grabs some strands of grass and rips them in half.

Close enough.

From indoors, Bucky can hear Steve singing along to his 70s playlist (which Bucky is getting sick of now, but he owes Steve this much) and he’s got Emma babbling delightedly at his right. He’s pulling weeds out, she’s grabbing whatever she can find and throwing it around, but it makes the job less tedious.

He doesn’t notice how the day passes with the two of them migrating around the garden, Emma only complaining twice - once when she needed a change (as much as Bucky wanted to help, his one hand made that impossible), and again when she wants to stop and eat her lunch. Steve joins them with sandwiches as he does every day, picking Emma up to go wash her hands in the kitchen sink.

Bucky follows and puts his own hand under the spray once Emma’s done, looking at Steve with his best puppy dog eyes.

“You need me to wash your hand, too?” Steve asks, shaking his head. Bucky just waits as Steve squirts hand soap onto his open palm, then clasps Bucky’s hand in both of his and lathers it up. Emma’s stuck sitting on the counter, tugging at the neck of Steve’s shirt for attention.

When the water runs clear, Steve turns the tap off and dries all of their hands off. “Ready to eat?”

“Always,” Bucky says with a smirk, leaning in to nip at Steve’s bottom lip.

Steve pulls back with what he must think is a very convincing frustrated sigh, but Bucky’s not blind or stupid. Bucky kisses his cheek instead and then they all go outside to eat.

—

When Bucky arrives at school to collect Amelia, she comes out with the sourest look he’s ever seen on her tiny face. He thinks it’s because she didn’t manage to wrangle a four-day weekend out of them, instead having to attend that Friday, but he finds out soon enough that that’s not the case.

They’re just beyond the school gates, actually, when Amelia bursts into tears.

Bucky wishes Steve were accessible at that moment, because every time he’s comforted Amelia he’s done so knowing the real adult is close enough to step in if he makes it worse. Right now, he has no choice but to fix the problem himself.

Bucky crouches in front of Amelia, rubbing his hand on her shoulder. Sarge, thankfully, does not tug away - if anything he’s drawn in to check on Amelia and make sure his new favourite human is okay. “Hey, Amelia, sweetie, what’s up?” Bucky uses his voice from the other night, when he’d tried to soothe the nightmare away.

Amelia sniffs and swings her bag off her shoulder, dropping it unceremoniously on the ground. Bucky’s thankful things like this - kids crying and tossing their bag around - are commonplace in school parking lots. He’s seen enough tantrums to know that the parents and carers around aren’t even going to bat an eye at Amelia.

She rummages through her bag, then pulls out a laminated sheet of paper. It’s got an image of Steve on there - Amelia got some of Steve’s drawing talent, clearly, because it’s a surprisingly good rendition of him - and then some questions underneath it. With a sniff, she hands it to Bucky.

He’s - baffled.

Amelia’s done a wonderful job answering all the questions (except for when she said Steve was 12 and his favourite thing to do was clean the house, but that’s fine) and it’s beautiful decorated. She’s spent a lot of time on this, evidently. “This is so beautiful, Amelia, Dad’s going to love it.”

“Yeah, but -,” she stops to scowl at how her nose keeps running, trying to wipe the snot away with the sleeve of her shirt, “but it’s Mother’s Day on Sunday and I don’t - have a mom. So I had to do this.”

Oh. _Oh_. “Oh, sweetheart,” Bucky says, and wraps Amelia up in a one-armed hug. “Daddy’s gonna love this so much. Just because it’s Mother’s Day doesn’t mean you can’t do something nice for him. He does the job of a mom and a dad, right?”

Amelia nods into Bucky’s shirt, leaving a trail of snot and tears there. Bucky’s not even grossed out by that anymore. He must be making progress. “Some of the boys were being mean to me.” Amelia’s staring resolutely at the ground. “And then I got a detention from Mr Spicer because I kicked one of them. And now Daddy’s going to be mad at me.”

Bucky laughs at that, because - well, because Steve will be mad, but he also doesn’t have any right to be. Pot meet kettle. A small part of him wants to congratulate Amelia, because sometimes people just need a good kick to realise they’re being little shits, but he’s not going to encourage the behaviour Steve so desperately wants her to avoid. “You have to try and solve your problems with your words,” Bucky echoes a sentiment he’s heard Steve use before, because Amelia clearly has the genetic predisposition to throw a few punches when someone upsets her.

Amelia takes back the Mother’s Day present and tucks it into her bag, then reaches a hand out to pat Sarge, keeping one arm hooked around Bucky’s neck. He stays in that crouch long enough for the tears to stop flowing and Amelia’s smiling again before they begin the trek back home.

—

Bucky’s not the first one to get up in the house when he can avoid it. He might be the first to wake up, but he stays in bed until Amelia or Steve or a coffee lures him out of the warmth of the covers. Today is an exception, though, because it’s Mother’s Day, and Amelia had begged him to help her make Steve breakfast in bed.

Getting out from beneath Steve is no easy task, and Bucky doesn’t manage to get very far before the other man stirs.

“Buck?” Steve asks sleepily, nuzzling in closer to Bucky which defeats the purpose of what he’s doing.

“Get off,” Bucky says, pushing at the mass of human on top of him until he’s able to weasel out of bed and into the cold of the world. It’s too damn early for this. He tries to remember when Father’s Day is, because he has to prepare himself to get up early again - but it’s probably going to happen once he’s long gone. Bucky huffs a sigh that he likes to pretend is at being awake so early on a Sunday.

Steve blinks up at him, eyes squinty. “What’s going on?” He’s useless in the morning, but _damn_ he’s cute. Bucky leans in to kiss his cheek.

“I’m getting up. You have to stay here,” Bucky instructs, punctuating it with another kiss. “No leaving this room.”

Steve looks as if he might protest, but then he gives up – he simply turns his face into Bucky’s pillow and starts lightly snoring almost immediately.

Bucky pulls his clothes on and then creeps out of the room, closing the door behind him. The next task is waking Amelia, who is likely going to be as excited about being awake as Bucky is. He lets himself into her room, fully expecting to have to shake her into consciousness, but Amelia’s wide awake and playing with her toys already.

“Is it breakfast time?” She tries to whisper, but it comes out about as loud as usual.

Bucky puts his finger to his lips, and the pair of them sneak into the kitchen in their pyjamas. Amelia’s already said that she wants to make Steve pancakes, and that - at least - is something Bucky knows how to make. Whenever Rebecca and Liam would stay over, he would make pancakes for breakfast. It’s like the one thing he can cook without screwing up monumentally, and he sets Amelia to work getting out all the ingredients.

They’re not exactly quiet about it, as much as they pretend to be, but Steve’s body sleeps through anything that is not a child crying or yelling so Bucky thinks they’re fine. Once the batter is mixed and Bucky’s at the stove top, Amelia disappears into their yard to pick flowers.

 _Their_ yard. He’s doing that too much lately - assigning these personal pronouns to things that are most certainly not his, especially not when a _we_ and _they_ doesn’t even really exist beyond Steve’s bedroom door.

He burns the first pancake.

Amelia comes back inside with a bouquet made up of daises and clover. By that point, Bucky’s gotten control of the heat and the rest of the pancakes are cooked properly. Amelia fusses over her flowers, retrieving a scrunchie from her room to bind them all by the stems.

“Here you go,” Bucky says, once he’s made a stack big enough for Steve. He places the plate on the kitchen table for Amelia to top, which she does with a surprising amount of restraint. Instead of covering it in candy, she chops up some strawberries with a butter knife and shapes them in something that might be a love heart. Amelia also drowns them in maple syrup, but that’s just to be expected when it comes to pancakes.

Amelia puts her hands on her hips and surveys her creation from a few angles before nodding. “You going to take them in?” Bucky asks as he slides a plate with the rest of their food into the oven to keep it warm.

“He needs a coffee,” Amelia turns and looks up at Bucky again with those pleading eyes, and he relents - not that he would’ve done anything else, honestly.

Bucky had been so caught up in making sure Steve’s breakfast came out perfectly that he hadn’t even stopped to make _himself_ a coffee. Luckily, Steve has a machine that does all the hard work for him - thank God for that, too - and it takes a minute for Bucky to prepare a mug for each of them. He holds the coffee for Steve and leaves his waiting on the kitchen bench, not trusting Amelia to manage a plate full of food _and_ a coffee at the same time. Steve would be so proud of his caution.

They tiptoe back through to Steve’s door, and Amelia knocks on it with her foot – which is to say, she tries to kick the door down. Bucky places the coffee on the floor to open the door, because Amelia’s hands are full of a plate and cutlery and he doesn’t fancy teaching Steve how to repair door hinges.

Steve’s in bed, looking blearily up at the two of them as they come in. Bucky wants to cross the room and kiss the confused tilt from his mouth, but he settles for picking up the coffee and carefully placing it on the bedside table. Amelia holds out the pancakes with a big, bright smile. Steve’s stare alternates between Bucky, Amelia, and the plate of food.

“What’s this?” Steve asks, slowly.

“It’s Mother’s Day!” Amelia says, putting the plate on his lap and dropping the cutlery by his side. “Hang on!” She runs out of the room, and Steve looks at Bucky.

“Did you make me pancakes?” He looks like he’s about to cry.

Bucky shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “Amelia asked me too.”

“Thank you.” Steve speaks with such sincerity that Bucky can’t do anything but fidget in place, looking around the room like it might save him. Steve rearranges the pillows behind him so he can sit up, inspecting the towering stack of pancakes he’s been given. “Where’s yours?”

Bucky shrugs again. “In the oven.”

Amelia comes tearing back into the room, climbing onto Bucky’s side of the bed - _not that he owns it_ \- and presents Steve with the flowers and gift. Bucky feels like a voyeur, watching Steve actually start to cry a little. He puts his pancakes to the side and pins Amelia to the bed, tickling her all over and laying kisses across her face. He hears, “ _thank you_ ,” and, “ _I love you,_ ” and, “ _Dad, stop!_ ” multiple times, amidst squeals of delight and Steve’s sleepy laughter.

Bucky makes his retreat.

—

“Bucky,” Amelia comes into the kitchen, stern expression on her face. “Dad wants to know why you’re not in bed.”

Bucky tries not to choke on his mouthful of coffee. When will she stop being so damn sneaky? “You two were doing - Mother’s Day stuff.”

Amelia rolls her eyes. “Well, Dad wants to eat breakfast with all of us. So you gotta get a plate and come on.”

If Steve wants him - well, Bucky’s not going to argue, is he? Before actually intruding on the moment, Bucky peeks in through the doorway, just to check. He doesn't want to go in only to find out that Amelia, not Steve, was the one who wanted him around - it was Steve's day, after all. Both girls are there on the bed - Amelia holding the flowers and plucking the petals off one, whilst Emma sits on Steve's lap as he offers her a strawberry to try. The trio don't even notice Bucky at first, and he pats his pocket, reminded of all the times Steve has been taking photos of him lately. He should repay the favour - Steve, at least, _deserves_ to be in photos with the girls. His phone is right there, and it doesn't take any time for Bucky to pull it out and snap a few shots. He'll send them to Steve, he figures, along with some of the other shots he's taken during his stay (mostly of Sarge with some combination of the girls).

"Bucky?" Steve asks, just as Bucky is lowering his phone from in front of him. "Go get your breakfast."

"Right,"  Bucky says, blushing a little at having been caught out - intruding on their private moments again. 

Nonetheless, he goes back to the kitchen to pulls the plate of pancakes out of the oven and tops it the way Amelia had done with Steve’s, though he’s lighter on the syrup. It takes two trips for Bucky to get his food and coffee into the bedroom, and when he does Amelia and Emma are eating bites of Steve’s breakfast off his fork, rolling around in the covers and chattering happily together.

When Bucky gets back to the bed, Amelia makes space for him and his food. Emma winds up in Bucky’s lap, tangling her fists in his hair, and Steve feeds Bucky from what is now the communal plate.

—

Bucky knows he can’t talk to his mother, because if he does then she’ll weasel the story out of him, and then he’s just going to cry and ruin her day.

Instead he sends a picture of Amelia holding her bunch of flowers, and attaches to it a message jointly constructed with the young wordsmith about how great mothers are.

“I wish I had your mom,” Amelia says, once Bucky’s sent the text.

“We can share her,” Bucky promises, placing a kiss on the top of her head.

Amelia seems happy with that. “Okay!” She replies brightly, then gets back to teaching Sarge how to jump over sticks.

—

Bucky’s been banned from the second bedroom since Steve’s started adding detail to the mural. It works out well, because Bucky and Emma get most of the gardening done together in that time. Sure, it’s not a _good_ job, but Bucky’s filled the garden beds with perennials and managed to coax Steve’s rarely-used mower into getting the grass tamed. He’s checked all the sprinklers and gotten the built-up dirt out of them so they all work fairly well. It’s a good, low maintenance garden.

He’s watching the way the sprinklers rotate, fine-tuning some so they’re not spraying the exterior walls so much, when Steve comes outside.

“Do you want to see it?” There’s no need to elaborate on what _it_ is, and Bucky immediately switches the sprinklers off. He gathers Emma up off the porch, even though she’s starting to weigh too much to be comfortably carried around (at least not by Bucky’s inferior muscles), and follows the other man inside.

Steve’s waiting at the bedroom door, and he takes Emma from Bucky’s arms. “Close your eyes,” Steve instructs, and then takes Bucky’s hand in his free one to pull him into the bedroom. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Steve’s voice is suddenly much closer to his ear as he whispers, “open them,” and Bucky does.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust, and when they have all he can do is stare, open-mouthed, at the scene before him. Steve’s painted the entire back wall varying shades of blue, tendrils of which snake out onto the adjoining walls. Against the blue backdrop is an underwater scene straight from a fantasy movie: there are schools of glittering fish, herds of seahorses, starfish, and a giant whale in the background; there are mermaids amongst golden buildings, the spires of their castle curling and spiked like conch shells.

Bucky stares for the longest time. Everywhere he looks, there’s some new detail to find: a shark, hiding amongst curls of green seaweed - a baby mermaid, coddled in her mother’s arms. It’s like one of those _Where_ _’s Waldo?_ books - Steve should make a list of everything he’s hidden in the image, just so Bucky has an excuse to look at it for longer.

“Do you like it?” Steve tentatively interrupts Bucky’s thoughts, and Bucky can’t imagine a world in which Steve might be nervous about the _masterpiece_ he’s created.

“It’s - amazing,” Bucky manages, still in awe of the image in front of him. “God, Steve, you’re incredible.”

Steve puts Emma down and kisses Bucky, light and careful. He frames Bucky’s face with his hands, and holds his gaze for a fraction too long. “I’m quitting my job,” Steve states as simply as if he’s just noted the weather - _sunny, isn_ _’t it?_

Bucky’s still gaping from the mural, and all he does is turn his stunned look onto Steve. “You’re - _what_?”

Steve squeezes Bucky’s cheeks a little and kisses him again, laughing into it. “I can’t go back there, Bucky. This - I’ve… never been so happy, doing this with you.” His hands flutter down Bucky’s body, over his jaw, shoulders, waist, to lock behind his back.

Bucky feels his heart clench tighter. He wishes he could be happy, too. He wishes he could stay. What he can take from this is that he’s helped Steve, even in some small way, to find his own happiness. Bucky knew it was insane for Steve to be single before, but now - with the way he just looks so buoyant and happy… he could have anyone he wanted. He could have someone more grounded, more permanent, more… _more_.

“I’m so proud of you,” Bucky says, and he is, it’s not a lie. How privileged of Bucky to be permitted on Steve’s journey - how lucky he is to have seen the man with the hollow look in his eyes change into this, this radiant and joyful human. “But is that – something that you can just… do?”

He’s reminded of Steve, a completely different person to the one standing before him now, talking about how he’d give anything to leave his job. He has two kids to support, and while Bucky trusts Steve not to make stupid decisions where either of the girls are concerned, it doesn’t seem like the best choice.

Steve leans his forehead on Bucky’s, then moves it to rest on his shoulder. Bucky feels his jaw shift as he searches for the words. “Peggy – we both have insurance. Had,” Steve sighs, and Bucky tightens his hold. “There’s enough money for all of us to live comfortably for a few years, once I cash out all of my leave.”

Bucky can’t grasp the concept of someone being so financially stable that they could afford not to work for more than a few weeks at a time, but clearly those people exist.

His silence draws Steve out of hiding, and he looks at Bucky, worry creasing his brow. “Do you think it’s – a bad idea?”

“What? No, of course not,” Bucky says too quick, but he knows that work of Steve’s calibre could fetch a good price. There are a lot of families in the area, too, and they don’t appear to be doing badly for themselves. Bucky sees the nice cars in the school parking lot, he knows. “It might take a while to start getting business.”

Steve, Bucky has learned, is incredibly impulsive for someone with two children. Or, rather, his mind is impulsive – he’s said things to Bucky in the dead of the night (asshole) that seem absolutely ridiculous, but he tries to make them work regardless. Steve’s not about to go jump out of a plane or something (well, Bucky doesn’t know that for sure), but he wouldn’t put it past the man to think of something like that.

“Even if it’s just painting white walls for the rest of my life, I don’t care,” Steve explains, and Bucky can see that there’s no talking around a decision he’s made. Bucky also doubts that this decision was made in isolation. “I want this.”

Bucky leans in to kiss him, because in three days they’re getting his cast cut off, and that means his days are numbered.

At least he can take comfort in the fact that he left things in a better way than they were when he started. That’s his job, isn’t it?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it!!! I cannot believe we made it this far but omg we did.  
> Before you get to the good stuff (which includes THREE, yes THREE, pieces of art 😍, I feel like Bucky bc I am stanning this art so hard), I just want to say again a huge thank you.  
> Thank you to the most incredible, talented, kind and supportive partner I could have ever gotten to work with on this project! You can, and should, follow Charlotte on [tumblr](https://odette-and-odile.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/odetteandodile). PLUS check out their own CapRBB fic, [Under the Hawthorn Tree](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18873817/) (I'm almost at the end and it's SO GOOD but I've been writing so I haven't had much reading time eep)  
> Thank you to the mods who made the Captain America Reverse Big Bang happen, the work you put in is so incredible and it's made for such a wonderful experience.  
> Another massive thank you to all the lovely people who followed this fic, and all the lovely people who will hopefully enjoy it now that it's completed. Please remember to subscribe to the series and come yell at me in the comment section or on twitter ([@_cydonic](https://twitter.com/_cydonic)) about anything you want to see me write next!  
> I'm off to work on my second CapRBB so I'll see you when that's up. 💖

It’s finally - _finally_ \- done.

Bucky surveys the property with something like awe. It’s taken almost ten full months to get here, but it’s done. The place doesn’t look anything it had when Bucky purchased it: rundown, tired, _empty_.

Now it’s something else. It’s alive, in a way. The garden is maintained, the sun-bleached porches revived with a sand and stain, the house a creature waiting to house and grow a family of its own.

Bucky leads the visiting real estate agent through the house with pride and dread a turbulent mixture in his stomach. Now that it’s free from its cast, his left hand trails across each wall as they walk, stroking sensitive fingertips over Steve’s flawless paint job.

He shows her the kitchen and bathroom, clean with chrome fittings, charcoal benchtops and light cabinetry working together. There are the bedrooms - bigger, now, with the removal of some key walls. Bucky gestures to the large wardrobes with mirrored doors, shows off Steve’s mural - wishes he could bottle up the awe that fills the room to give back to Steve, who still sometimes asks Bucky if it’s _really good, Buck, be_ honest.

(the honest answer is that Bucky doesn’t _have_ the words to describe how impressively talented Steve is)

The agent, Betty, she said her name was, crouches down to touch the walnut-stained oak floorboards. She makes pleased noises as she goes around the place, inspecting the cutting in of the paint around the newly upgraded power outlets.

She does a lap of the exterior, as well - the entire house has been scrubbed clean, courtesy of Thor. Bucky hadn’t realised at first, but he ran a similar operation to Bucky’s dad: a qualified electrician, where George is a plumber, who will do basically any home job so long as no governing bodies catch wind of it. They were surprisingly stringent when it came to who was allowed to do what. Bucky used to scoff at it, but after his run-in with a ladder and the ground he’s starting to think they might have a point.

Bucky wistfully remembers Steve’s possessive hand around Bucky’s hip when he’d been talking to Thor, as if the other man was a threat. Of course, Bucky had declined to share with Steve that Thor had an expectant wife at home waiting for him. It had been more fun to let himself be the subject of desire - to let himself be pinned to the wall, then the bed, then the shower, all in that single night. To wear jealous bites sucked onto the skin of his neck and shoulder. To _be_ Steve’s, and nothing but.

The inspection is quick and painless, mostly because Bucky’s done this before. He knows what to highlight and what to downplay - he knows the market and the asking price he has in mind, and he tells her as much.

Betty nods and notes down what he wants, because it’s easier on both of them this way. Bucky doesn’t need the spiels, he doesn’t want the upsell, he doesn’t even _want_ to go but the quicker the better at this point. He’s already in far too deep and he can’t afford to keep hanging on any longer. It’s only going to make it more difficult when he tries to leave.

The subject of home staging comes up, and Bucky agrees without needing the convincing. A house won’t sell without some life to it, he knows that, and unfortunately his futon (long unused) and small fridge only indicate to potential buyers that a lonely, sad man lives there. Unlike his specifications for the listing, Bucky doesn’t care how they choose to stage the house. For all he can figure out which counters match which cabinets, Bucky isn’t a stylist. He likes to leave that to the professionals as they determine colour schemes and figure out what the true _vibe_ of the house is.

They make plans to have the home stagers come through the next morning, then to meet together on Friday at four to take photos and get the listing finalised. It all feels too soon, but Bucky has the entire week to prepare. Once the listing is live, the offer could come through at any time and he’d be signing and packing and leaving.

“I think you’ll get a quick sale,” Betty says politely, as she’s about to leave. “A lot of young families are looking to move within walking distance of a good school - and with that artwork already installed, you’ll be getting a lot of attention.”

Bucky nods his head, because of _course_ it’ll get a lot of attention - it’s a _literal_ work of art, museum-calibre. “Can you make note of the artist for me?” He asks, belatedly, as Betty’s about to slide into her agency-branded car.

“Of course,” she says, and lets Bucky write down Steve’s name in her notebook - along with his email address and Instagram account.

Then they’re doing the polite goodbye handshake, and Bucky watches her drive away down the street.

—

Bucky tries not to let on to Steve and the girls how he’s feeling, but it’s hard. Dread has settled over Bucky like a heavy curtain, and try as he might to shake it, it refuses to move. Steve presses his foot under the table, but Bucky can’t dredge up more than a weak smile that even Amelia sees right through.

They ordinarily watch television at night, while the girls are going through their baths. Bucky now has physiotherapist exercises to do, and he sits obediently on the couch and goes through the motions of strengthening his arm.

Amelia comes to sit with him in her pyjamas, climbing onto his lap in a way she only does when she’s sad or she wants something. No request is forthcoming - and she’s certainly not the sort to play the long game - so Bucky figures something’s upset her.

He puts down the hard ball the physiotherapist gave him to squeeze for increasing durations, and instead pulls Amelia’s hair out of its ponytail and loops the hair tie around his wrist. He slowly starts to brush through her fine blonde hair, teasing out the small knots that have formed there. It’s an unconscious gesture of sorts, a call back to when he was younger and Rebecca used to demand he plait her hair because Winnie never got it quite right. Bucky always pulled tight because he thought it’d hurt his sister - it simply resulted in a neater braid at the end, which meant his attempt at getting back at her went spectacularly wrong.

Unthinkingly, Bucky separates Amelia’s hair into three parts. She settles down further in his lap, eyes glued on the cartoon playing on the screen. Gentler than he’d ever been with Becca, Bucky starts to overlap the chunks of hair in a repeating pattern, pulling extra hair in as he goes.

Once Bucky reaches the nape of her neck and runs out of hair, he ties it back up and smooths a hand over his handiwork. It’s been a while since he had to braid anything and his hand strength is still returning, so little tufts of blonde stick out between the joins, but it’s a pretty good job.

With a pat on the shoulder to signify that he’s done, Bucky expects Amelia to hop off his lap. Instead, she turns around and looks at him critically.

“Why are you sad?” Amelia asks, returning the favour by pulling at a chunk of his hair, splitting it in two, and twisting them together.

Bucky knows that Amelia knows he’s leaving - Steve’s told her before what he’s doing (and had later relayed to Bucky how she’d cried, which only made him feel worse), but it’s still hard to say. “I’m selling the house.”

Amelia frowns. “Why?”

“That’s my job. I fix houses and sell them,” Bucky explains as simply as he can.

Amelia doesn’t look like this has answered her question at all. “So… you’re going to live here?”

Bucky wants more than anything to say yes - to say _of course_ , I’ve already been living here for two months, what’s the rest of my life? - but he can’t. He and Steve have danced around the topic - Bucky’s been the one to shy away more than Steve, because he knows what the answer will be.

“No, I’m - probably going to buy another house somewhere. Do the same thing,” Bucky manages to swallow down the lump in his throat to answer.

Tears well up in Amelia’s eyes. “Where?” She asks in a small, scared voice, and Bucky wishes desperately to take it all back.

“I don’t know.” Normally Bucky’s picked his next place by the time he’s wrapped up the last, ready to move on and get back to work. The sale process in many cases can be handled by the real estate agency, and Bucky just pops in to sign all the paperwork he needs to. This time he’s barely looked at any real estate, despite George emailing him through some interesting listings.

Amelia blinks, and the first tear falls. “I don’t want you to leave,” she cries, burrowing into Bucky’s neck the same way Steve does when he’s falling asleep. Bucky rubs his hands - both of them - up and down her back as her tears dampen his neck.

It’s hard to tell when Steve came back in the room, but he’s standing there, looking sadly at Bucky. He must be so annoyed at him – Bucky’s gone ahead and done the one thing Steve _didn_ _’t_ want, upset Amelia. Bucky tries to breathe, but Amelia’s a sad weight on his chest, and Steve’s gaze is even heavier.

“It’s time for bed, baby,” Steve mumbles, leaning in to pry Amelia from Bucky.

She’s big enough to walk, but when Amelia wraps her arms and legs around Steve like a little koala, he just accepts it and shuffles down the hallway to her room. Bucky knows how long it takes to put Amelia to bed - it’s a while, because she always needs a drink, then a story, then the toilet, and _another_ story - but this takes longer than normal.

Bucky occupies himself while Steve and Amelia talk quietly by picking up his phone and checking up on how Steve’s mural is being received online. Once Steve had made the decision to start painting - which he’d later moderated by agreeing to work one day a week until he was established, almost as if Bucky had some entitlement to the decisions Steve made with his family and life - Bucky had helped him start an Instagram. Bucky’s not cool by any means - he has it mostly to keep up with pictures of Liam while he’s away - but he knows the impact social media has when it comes to art and business.

Steve, after their panicked 3am, “ _but what should the business name be?_ ” discussion, decided to stick with just his name and _Art_ at the end. So Bucky had gone ahead and made an Instagram, and together they’d figured out how to hashtag - with a group call from Natasha in there, because she knew how to do everything. Bucky took some photos of the mural in Amelia’s room to share, too, and they were gaining popularity. Someone had already sent an email through. It was good. Steve deserved it.

Steve finally emerges from Amelia’s room a full half-hour later, and he drops down onto the couch next to Bucky. “How did it go, with the real estate agent?” He asks, carefully, and Bucky knows that they’re both avoiding the discussion they should be having.

“Good,” Bucky says, wishing he sounded less like someone had just run over his dog. “It was good. She’s going to put your name on the website when they list the house. It should be good publicity.”

Steve smiles, but even that looks strained - or perhaps Bucky’s just projecting. “They don’t have to do that.”

“They do, Steve,” Bucky answers, then corrects himself: “I do. You’ve done - so much for me. I can’t… I can’t repay you.” He feels terrible - he can’t even meet Steve’s eyes, instead focusing on a picture of the girls playing with Sarge on the mantle.

“You don’t _owe_ me anything, Bucky,” Steve says, nudging him in the side. He’s become more tactile since Bucky’s cast was removed - now that Steve’s no longer afraid of accidentally hurting him, he’s got no qualms about shoving Bucky when he deserves it.

Which, realistically, is a lot.

“I’m serious, Buck.” Clearly Steve’s dad sense is working overdrive and he can now read Bucky’s mind. “You helped me figure out what to do with my life, instead of just be so…,” Steve shrugs one shoulder, the one closest to Bucky. He feels the gesture through his own body.

Bucky fidgets with the couch cushion, tugging at a loose thread. “You figured it out yourself,” and then, before Steve can make him feel worse by making Bucky out to be an actual good person, adds, “but I’m glad I could help.”

Steve leans across to kiss Bucky on the cheek. “Bed?” He asks, and Bucky’s glad they aren’t going to talk anymore because all he wants to do is beg Steve to let him stay, but he can’t. He came into this, very clear about what he was doing. It’s not fair to then change his mind, not when Steve has made it obvious that this is a temporary, hidden thing.

—

Amelia makes a point of not talking to Bucky on the walk to school the next day, and if it wasn’t so upsetting he’d be amazed at her self-restraint in the name of holding a grudge.

Steve’s at work and Emma’s at the day care they provide in his building, so Bucky goes to see what the home stagers are up to. They have their truck backed up in the yard - his is on the street, now, parked on the curb and out of the way.

They’re going for the typical modern look, the monochrome living spaces with overdone children’s’ rooms, and Bucky can buy that. They’ve gone full under the sea for the nursery, which is how they’re advertising the room with Steve’s mural. There’s a cot with _Little Mermaid_ stuffed toys lining one edge, and a nautical themed mobile hanging above it.

Bucky, despite being the homeowner, is hurried out of there fairly quickly so they can get to work.

Going back to Steve’s feels lonely without at least one child there, and so he decides to do something with his day that isn’t moping on Steve’s couch.

Sarge is overjoyed at the thought of more than his typical school walk and makes the most of the new scenery as they venture into the town. Bucky’s been meaning to get his haircut for months now, and he delayed because - well, because Steve grabbing it has become his new favourite thing - but it needs to be done.

He’s not an elitist and picks the barbershop that doesn’t expect you to make appointments. They trim it, but Bucky runs his hand through to make sure that it’s still got a bit of length in it. He’s not gone yet. Maybe he and Steve can make the most of what little time remains.

After that, Bucky wanders aimlessly. Suddenly there’s nothing he needs: no last-minute extra tins of paint or rolls of sandpaper or extension cords.

He’s not used to the freedom.

Sarge isn’t allowed into most stores, but as with the school, he adores being tied up outside _anywhere_ because his likelihood of getting attention is greater.

Bucky lets himself explore Target, which isn’t usually his choice of store. He’s not sure what draws him in, but once he’s there Bucky gravitates towards the toy section.

He looks through the baby section first, at all the large, brightly coloured objects. As he reaches out and touches - because he is clearly as easily entertained as an infant - the different textures and sounds and sensations intrigue him.

There are walkers and small ride-on cars, stuffed animals with parts that ring and squeak and crinkle, wooden blocks for stacking and knocking down later.

Bucky hasn’t even noticed that he’s grabbed an activity station, which advertises on the back all the ways it benefits a child’s fine-motor development, until he’s holding it under one arm.

Even if Steve says Bucky doesn’t owe him anything, that doesn’t mean Bucky doesn’t _want_ to give them anything.

Besides, Emma needs something to occupy her. Now that she’s mobile, everything that shouldn’t be a toy has suddenly become one. Anything within reach of her tiny hands is very quick to wind up in her hands or mouth. It’s the least Bucky can do.

One thing Bucky is learning now, as he continues on his adventure up in the ages, is that things get both smaller _and_ more expensive. The toys for babies and toddlers are large and colourful and relatively cheap - once they hit Amelia’s age they’re small and complex and to do with games or cartoons that Bucky has no idea about. Some of the toys are little trash monsters, by the look of it, and he’s baffled by the concept. There are some things still going from his childhood, like the small part of one aisle dedicated to _Transformers_ and _Pokémon_ , but overall Bucky feels like a visitor in a foreign land.

He crosses the aisle of board games and Lego, and finds himself in the big-ticket item department. This is where you buy the flat-pack kitchens and hair salon kits, ready to put together and get your child trained for their glamorous future. Bucky’s about to write the whole section off as a waste when he spots the cubby house kit.

Bucky does not simply stare at it - he glares at it. He _wants_ it. He’s perfectly capable of making Amelia a cubby house from scratch, but he hasn’t got the time to do so. This one has everything inside, pre-cut and sanded and painted, ready for a lifetime spent outdoors. It’s not designed to go in an _actual_ tree from what Bucky can gather, but it wouldn’t be too difficult to build a supporting platform and mount it.

The look Bucky has trained on the cubby house scares one shopper away, and she walks backwards with her trolley and crying child to avoid him.

Eventually, Bucky winds up with a trolley of his own. And an activity set. And a cubby house. And some other toys (including an inflatable punching bag, because hey - Amelia probably needs a healthy outlet before she winds up even _more_ a little clone of Steve). He continues through the store - holds up clothes to consider whether they’d fit either of the girls or not, before deciding against it. Clothing feels - a step too far. Too personal.

There are also more than enough gifts in the trolley for Emma and Amelia, and that makes Bucky think of Steve. He hasn’t given the man anything. Like he’d said, there was no way to repay Steve for the kindness he’d shown Bucky. He had taken Bucky in when he needed it, had saved him from what could have been the job that bankrupted him, and acted as if it was nothing at all.

Bucky meandered through each section he could think of, waiting for the perfect gift to leap out at him, and then he sees it - the photo department in the back corner of the store. He should’ve known it was here, because Steve often comes home with new 6x4s of the girls to show off. Bucky’s made cameo appearances in some - been the feature of a couple - and he can’t help but smile when Steve bustles around and rotates the images in the frames with new ones.

He pulls the trolley flush up against the photo booth and connects his phone to it. He doesn’t take photos like Steve does, but he’d made an effort. Becca used to complain to him that there were never any photos of her with Liam, because she was always the one _taking_ the photos. Until then, Bucky had never realised that a mother was often the one behind, rather than in front of, the camera lens, and it simply wasn’t right. Steve, like Becca, spent so much time with his children - and he deserved to have physical memories to hold on as they grew older and changed.

The photo roll on Bucky’s camera used to be filled primarily with images for work - photos of particular paint shades or receipts or screenshots of ideas he liked - and shots of Sarge. Now, it’s changed somewhat. Sarge still features heavily, but there are so many photos of Steve and Emma and Amelia simply _existing_ that it’s going to be painful to look back on once he’s gone.

Hell, it hurts bad enough now, but Bucky has to do it.

He gets a copy of every single image he has, even the ones that are taken consecutively and are basically identical, just to give Steve more fodder for his weekly photo frame switch-up. Then Bucky picks one picture he’d taken without Steve’s notice to enlarge. It had been during Mother’s Day, when Bucky had lingered in the doorway a little too long. None of them are looking at the camera, but there’s something so perfect about the candid shot: Steve’s hand holding the berry in front of Emma’s red-stained lips, his eyes on Amelia who has her mouth open, mid-song, plucking a white petal from a daisy.

The time Bucky spends deliberating over what frame to put the large photo in is not worth discussing. Needless to say, by the time he leaves - wallet significantly lighter - Sarge has had enough of propositioning strangers for pats and would like to get home.

—

Bucky gets home with time to spare, and he hides the gifts he’s bought in his own place. Isn’t it funny, how Bucky feels like a stranger in both buildings? His futon and other possessions have been hidden away in the master bedroom wardrobe to make room for the rented furniture, and Bucky tucks the gifts around those.

Now that Bucky has two hands available for work, he spends a little while in Steve’s house doing chores: vacuuming, sweeping, mopping. All things that need doing on a near-daily basis with kids, but that Steve doesn’t have time for _because_ of the kids. Bucky’s actually quite impressed with how quick he’s able to clean now that he can use both left and right hands to get the job done - before picking up Amelia, he also manages to get last night’s dishes put away neatly.

At school pick up, Amelia is still committed to her vow of silence towards him. The walk home is very awkward indeed, as is the rest of the afternoon until Steve and Emma return.

The silent treatment doesn’t extend to either of them, and Amelia is fit to burst when Steve gets in the door. She’s already talking double-time about her day, waving an envelope in Steve’s face and telling him all about how to count by 3s. Bucky watches with an amused smile as Steve manages to keep Emma on his hip, remove his shoes, and respond to Amelia’s verbal assault with more than just a confused look.

Bucky could never do that.

When Amelia stops to breathe, Steve seems to notice Bucky. Really, properly notice him. He puts Emma down, and Bucky feels like a prey animal as Steve approaches him. Once he’s standing in front of Bucky, who’s seated at the dining table, Steve runs a hand through his hair. Bucky holds his breath as Steve grabs briefly at the strands, humming in thought.

“I like your haircut,” Steve says once he releases Bucky, and the looming fear of his departure is silenced momentarily. Everything in his brain is silenced, actually, because Steve’s just fisted a hand in his hair and then turned back to talk to Amelia about how to measure liquids.

—

Steve doesn’t open the envelope from Amelia until after she’s asleep. There’s a distinct air of worry about him as he tears into it.

“Why’s that a bad thing?” Bucky asks from beside him on the couch, the sides of their bodies touching. Bucky’s definitely waiting for Steve to get through whatever this is so he can get back to earlier today when Steve had expressed admiration for his haircut.

“This is how they send behaviour notices,” Steve remarks dryly, but he looks pleasantly surprised once he reads the contents of the letter.

Bucky smiles, trying not to be nosey and read over Steve’s shoulder, but that’s made him even more curious than usual. “You get a lot of those, huh?”

Steve snorts a laugh, elbowing Bucky in the side. “You know her.”

“I know you.”

“Jerk.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and elbows Steve back. “So, what is it?”

“Parent-teacher meetings,” Steve explains, suddenly groping around the couch to find his phone. “We have to book them online or something.” He adds, holding up the letter which has a QR code, Amelia’s full name printed in bold letters, and a randomly generated password that is at least 20 characters long.

Steve had confessed to Bucky that he wasn’t exactly the most technically savvy person, so Bucky figured Steve was doing this now so he could access Bucky’s trouble-shooting skills. “When are they?” Bucky asks as he takes Steve’s phone and shows him how to scan a QR code.

“On,” Steve draws the word out as he picks the letter back up again, scanning it for the date, “Friday. And it’s dated a week and a half ago, so it’s clearly been living in the bottom of Amelia’s bag since then.”

Bucky doesn’t like to think of what the bottom of any child’s schoolbag is like, grimacing in sympathy for Steve at having to be the one to tackle that mess. Parenting. There’s at least one con to it that he can see.

Slowly, Steve logs on as Amelia’s parent - after a few missteps on the password, a convoluted string of letters, numbers, and symbols - and he starts to scan over the available time slots. “All the good ones are gone,” Steve laments after some clicking around, and Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“Who do you have to see?”

“I’d like to see Mrs Webb, obviously, then she has a Maths and Science teacher, Art, too - Gym, I’m not all that worried about,” Steve explains as he continues to scroll, leaning in to see the page better. Bucky probably should’ve suggested they use Steve’s computer, but that seemed like too much work at the time.

Bucky hums. “She still sucks at throwing,” he says, and cops another elbow for his input.

Steve lapses into silence as he checks each teacher’s availability one by one, brow furrowed as he works out the complex problem of how to see everyone with the limited time remaining. “Okay, so if you go see Miss Anderson - she takes Maths and Science, which you’re better at than me - I’ll be able to visit Mrs Webb, and we can go see the Art teacher together.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You really trust me to go to a parent-teacher meeting on your behalf?”

Steve looks faintly embarrassed by that. “You’ve been working so hard with her on all her counting and stuff. I thought if there was anything she needed to work on, you might understand it better than me.”

“Sure – I’m not an expert, but I did learn my times tables in school.” At that, Bucky gets a laugh, but the true gravity of Steve’s suggestion still hasn’t quite sunk in. “Then why do you want me to be with you to see the Art teacher? I don’t know anything about Art.”

“Yeah, but if you’re already there you may as well go to that,” Steve counters, and Bucky’s not sure what inspires him to lay his head on Steve’s shoulder, but he does.

“Alright. What times are they?”

“You’ll be with Miss Anderson at 3:45 on Friday, then we’ve got Mr Slade straight after for Art,” Steve says, tongue poked out of his mouth as he clicks through and confirms the different bookings.

Friday. Bucky hesitates, and then remembers - he’s busy on Friday. The real estate agent is coming by that afternoon to take photos of the house. “I’ll just have to reschedule the -,” Bucky starts, and then stops.

The real estate agent is coming on Friday to help him sell his house. The house that he’s spent weeks - _months_ \- convincing himself he wants to leave, because that’s _what he does_ , he _leaves_. He has put blood, sweat, tears, and the make-up of his _bones_ into the house. It isn’t just an option, it’s his livelihood, and he’s just about to put it on hold for some parent-teacher meetings.

Because he wants to.

Because he wants _so badly_ to fall into that category, to be the parent, to sit down with one of Amelia’s teachers and listen to them and feedback to Steve the things they both need to help her with so she can succeed.

Bucky’s aware too late that he’s been sitting, frozen, his sentence incomplete, for too long. Steve’s got a hand on his shoulder, and Bucky turns out of it - he thinks he offers some flimsy excuse as he instinctively goes to their room - _their_ room! - and locks the door behind him.

The ground is falling away from beneath him, the foundations Bucky had built his life upon crumbling, and it’s because he’s so hopelessly _in love_ with Steve and his entire family. He can’t do it. He can’t even consider leaving now, as an abstract concept he’s working towards - how can he _actually_ put his stuff in his truck and drive away?

Bucky pulls out his phone and sits himself with his back against the door, scrolling through his contacts. He could call Nat, or even Clint, but they’ve been mocking him relentlessly for months over his living arrangement, so they won’t be any help. He goes to the next best option - or what is, actually, the best option - Becca.

She’s a parent. She can help.

“Hello?” She answers after what feels like an eternity of ringing.

“Becca?” Bucky replies, and he must sound like he’s having a mental breakdown ( _because he is_ ) because she makes a worried sound that crackles down the line.

“Buck? What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Bucky can, distantly, acknowledge how stupid this is. It isn’t an emergency. He’s not in any physical danger. “I’m - no, I’m fine - I just wanted to ask you a question.”

“Uh,” Becca replies, then, “go for it?”

He draws in a deep breath. He can hear Steve knocking on the door, and the way he says Bucky’s name - with worry, just like Rebecca has done on the line - makes him want to cry even more.

“Do you think I’d be a good parent?” When Bucky voices his fear, he feels like an idiot. He knows he can be a good partner to someone - Bucky understands romance, he knows how to make someone happy. But being a parent? To two kids? That’s unknown territory.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing! Just answer the question,” Bucky snaps, feeling almost hysterical. This was a bad idea. He should just tell Steve he can’t make it. He should go sleep on the floor next to the rented bedroom suite he’s using to sell the dream of the house and make that the end of it.

Becca sounds like she’s talking to someone else, before returning to the line. “Have you got some girl pregnant or something?”

Bucky realises then who she’s talking to, because, before he can answer her, his mother has hold of the phone. “James? What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Bucky insists, considering how bad it would be to hang up now. He knows the answer to that - you don’t just _hang up_ on Winifred Barnes.

“He wants to know about being a parent,” Becca says, and then Bucky realises he’s on _fucking speaker_.

“I just wanted your opinion! I didn’t want to be interrogated!” Bucky protests, and both women scramble to reply, meaning both of their words are lost to him.

They continue to grapple for verbal dominance, and when Winnie comes through uninterrupted, Bucky’s not surprised. “Rebecca said you sounded like something was wrong! What’s happened?”

There’s no use lying to his mother, because she can smell a lie from the other side of the state. Probably the other side of the world.

Bucky rests his forehead on his knees to hide from the sheer embarrassment of it all. Steve knocks on the door again.

“I just wanted to know if I’d be a good parent. If you think I would be.” Bucky admits quietly to the bedroom floor.

Winnie snorts. “Of course you would, James. What a stupid question! People aren’t good parents just by being born, you learn it! And if I know you – which I _do_ – you’ll learn anything you set your mind to.”

Bucky laughs on an exhale. Trust his mother to somehow make him feel like an idiot but also completely reassure him in one conversation.

“Now, are you going to tell us what this is all about?” Winnie presses, and Bucky rolls his eyes, glad she can’t see it. He’s rolling them at himself, mostly.

“I’ve been staying with Steve, and I -,” Bucky doesn’t know how to say it. He can’t say that he loves them all. Not when he can’t even tell if Steve feels the same or not. “I don’t want to leave.”

Becca makes an, “ _aw_ ,” sound in the background that tells Bucky he will never hear the end of this. They have the typical sibling agreement not to make fun of each other during their lowest points, but to absolutely bring it up afterwards and for the rest of their lives.

Winnie just sighs in that motherly way of hers - it reminds Bucky of when Steve shakes his head, as if he can’t believe the stupid thing Amelia’s just done, but he loves her unconditionally for it. “I’m expecting them all for Christmas, you hear me, James?”

Bucky laughs again, and this time it makes him cry, tears sliding down his cheeks. He doesn’t want to tell her that’s probably not going to happen. She’s always wanted grandkids from him, too. “I’ll let you know,” he manages, and then - because Steve sounds like he might just pry the door open with a butter knife ( _why_ did Bucky teach him that?), bids farewell to his family.

He doesn’t know that the conversation has made him feel better, necessarily, but maybe they have a point.

Bucky stands up, and he knows later he’s going to remember he locked himself in a room and cried on the phone to his mother and regret every life choice that lead him to that point, but for now Steve has started talking to him through the door.

“Buck? I’m sorry - you don’t have to come anywhere, that was - presumptuous.” The loud whisper, because the girls are asleep, Bucky recalls, carries through the door to where Bucky stands. “Please, just talk to me.”

He reaches out and unlocks the door. Steve, clearly having missed the virtue of patience, throws it open and then just stares at him. The concern on Steve’s face is horrible to witness, and Bucky realises he just ran off and _locked Steve out_. Of course he’s thinking the worst.

Once Steve’s looked Bucky over and is satisfied that he’s not bleeding out in his bedroom, Steve fidgets.

Bucky shifts the words around in his mouth, looking for the right way to say them - the perfect arrangement to convince Steve to keep him, to just give him a chance.

Instead, what he says, in a horribly small voice, is: “I don’t want to leave.”

Steve frowns, but it’s gentle, as if he’s trying to soften the blow. “What do you mean?” He asks, and despite how small his voice is it seems to echo in the silence of the room.

Bucky doesn’t know that he has the strength to express the sentiment he had been avoiding for so long, but he inhales and gives it a go. “I don’t want to sell the house and go. I want to stay with you.” It feels pathetic, now that he’s given voice to the thought that had spent months silenced.

“Oh, Buck,” is all Steve says before Bucky’s wrapped up in his arms, a surprised noise being squeezed from his body. “You don’t have to leave.” He affirms into Bucky’s temple, lips soft and warm on his skin.

It feels like it should be a lie, like the television is running but the audio and video don’t match up. He’s convinced himself that this isn’t for him, that settling down and having a family with Steve is not something he can have. That Steve deserves _better_.

Bucky lets his head rest on Steve’s chest, staring vacantly ahead. “But I’m not very good with kids,” Bucky explains, because in his mind - and surely in Steve’s - that’s the deal-breaker. Bucky could be good for Steve, he’s _sure_ he could, but for the girls?

Steve laughs, and Bucky feels the sound as much as he hears it, Steve’s chest vibrating against the side of his face. “What are you talking about?” He asks, holding Bucky out at arms distance now. “The girls love you, Buck.”

Bucky swallows. His mind has spent so long telling him he couldn’t have this that it needs to sabotage what is too good of a conversation. The optimism is scarier than if Steve had just told him he had to go. “Amelia’s not talking to me,” he admits sullenly, still refusing to meet Steve’s eyes head-on.

“That’s because she thinks you’re _leaving_ ,” Steve’s still smiling, but there are tears in his eyes, and Bucky feels even worse for whatever it is he’s done this time. “Bucky, you’ve been looking after them for _months_.”

Bucky opens his mouth to protest again, but Steve halts him with a kiss. It’s for the best that he does, because Bucky’s brain is scrambling to find evidence of how he hasn’t cared for them - and coming up empty handed. He’s walked Amelia to and from school daily, helped her through her homework - even helped plan and build a cubby. He’s taught Emma to pull weeds - though not very well - and finally started feeding and bathing her with the removal of the cast. At some point along the line, the things Bucky did as default actions - things as natural and necessary as breathing - had expanded to include these little ways in which he took care of the small family he’d tried to be part of.

“Don’t say anything,” Steve says, when he pulls back, hands on Bucky’s cheeks. “Don’t. The girls love you. _I_ love you. Stay with us.”

Bucky is incapable of following instructions, because instead of saying nothing, he whispers, “I love you, too,” against Steve’s lips and kisses him again.

And again.

And again.

—

Morning breaks with a different feel to it. The sun, where it glows around the blinds, is stronger - warmer. Steve’s body on his had been so commonplace that Bucky barely noticed, but now he can.

It takes him up until the alarm to realise what’s unusual about the day, and then it clicks: there is no longer the looming spectre of a deadline tainting every good moment with its touch. There’s just them - Bucky and Steve - in bed, waking up on a morning that is like so many mornings before it, like so many future mornings will be.

The alarm rings longer than usual because Bucky, instead of letting Steve handle it, rolls the other man over and straddles his waist. They kiss with a sort of feverish pace that is unnecessary, because Bucky has _time_. Steve works one day a week. The house is done. They can come back to this later - and they can start again, and again, and again.

It’s only when Amelia knocks on their door that Bucky lets Steve go, the other man’s mouth shiny and red.

He’ll definitely be following up on that once he’s taken Amelia to school.

Once Steve has told Amelia ten times to get dressed and go eat, he hops into the shower - Bucky, much to his dismay, was not invited to join. Instead, he’s down in the kitchen, serving Amelia’s new food obsession: oatmeal.

She comes into the kitchen as Bucky’s microwaving her bowl, still looking mad. It’s probably the longest Bucky’s ever gone without hearing her talk to him, and it’s really starting to hurt. He doesn’t want to tell Amelia he’s staying in case Steve wants to handle that particular conversation, but he also wants to bundle her up in his arms and never let her go.

Instead of saying anything she holds out to him a folded piece of white paper. Once he’s taken it she sits at the table, arms folded, and rests her head on the wood.

Bucky unfolds it and reads:

_This is why Bucky should DEFINTLY stay with us. do you want daddy to be sad becuaes he has no one to hug? NO! Here are my reasons why._

_Firstly, your good at fixing stuff. We need someone to fix stuff becasue some times dad does not no how and that makes us sad_

_Secondly, i like when you walk us to school. Every one says Sarg is really REALLY COOL and some of the other kids get mad and jelus at my cool dog. So you should stay that way i can show off my cool dog forever._

_Lastly, i will CRY if you leave. Do you want to make me cry????? NO!_

_These are my reasons why Bucky should live with us. I hope you agree!!_

It seems to that in these twenty-four hours, Bucky’s body is determined to make him cry more than he has since infancy. Amelia’s sullenly watching him from her spot at the table, chin resting on the polished wood, and Bucky can’t help himself. He puts the piece of paper on the counter - ignores how the microwave is indignantly beeping as it’s ignored - and crouches down in front of her.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky says, and he thinks maybe he can do this parent thing, because the smile that lights up her face makes him feel like nothing else.

Amelia throws her arms around his neck, and when Bucky stands she clings to him like a little barnacle, talking a mile a minute into his neck. Bucky can’t hear her, but he’s busy pressing kisses to her hair, smiling through the tears.

Steve picks that moment to enter the room, as Bucky - ignoring his physiotherapists instructions not to lift anything heavy until his rehab was finished - continues holding onto Amelia as tightly as she’s holding on to him. Without hesitation, Steve joins them, arms wrapping around Bucky and sandwiching Amelia in the middle.

“What are we so happy about?”

Amelia’s head pops up, and she turns it to look over her shoulder at her father. “I wrote Bucky a letter and he’s going to stay!” She squeals with delight.

Steve smiles, and places a kiss on each of their cheeks in turn. “Well done,” he says, raising one eyebrow at Bucky when Amelia turns back to him. “I guess that means it’s breakfast time, then?”

The porridge has gone sludgy by the time Bucky gets to it, and he takes that one for himself and makes Amelia a fresh bowl. Steve goes to get Emma and chops her up some fruit, which she excitedly tosses to the ground.

They’ve done this before - all four of them around the dining table, eating - but for the first time, Bucky realises, they’re a _family_.

—

Bucky kisses Steve and Emma goodbye before they leave for school, which is why – partway down the road – Amelia turns to him and asks, “why are you and Daddy kissing?”

Which is definitely a conversation Bucky’s been expecting since Steve just _did it_ , but it still takes him by surprise. Again, he thinks he should wait for Steve, but Amelia’s not the sort of kid to let anything rest. Plus, Bucky’s taking her to school where she will undoubtedly share the story with anyone who’ll listen.

He also stops to think that Steve’s asked him to stay, which means Bucky must be trusted with their happiness and well-being, at least in some small capacity.

Bucky clears his throat and searches for some explanation that will help Amelia make sense of this sudden turn of events. “Because we love each other,” is all he comes up with.

Amelia just says, “oh,” and then looks back to Sarge. “Does this mean Sarge is my dog now?”

And it’s as easy as that.

—

The house gets photographed and listed and sold fairly quickly.

Bucky barely notices - barely cares, actually - because he’s got other things to do.

He’s got Amelia’s parent-teacher meeting to attend. He sits in with Miss Anderson, who chats excitedly with him about the progress Amelia’s made in Maths and Science. “She’s always telling us about you helping her,” the young woman says, as she turns around an example of Amelia’s work where she’s used the skip counting Bucky had worked on with her. “I think it’s really helped a lot. She’s been much happier, too.”

When they’re done - Bucky promising to come in and be a parent helper one day during the next year - he makes his way over to the Art room where Steve is waiting with the girls. When Bucky gets to them, it’s not even a conscious thought of his to kiss Amelia’s head and Steve’s lips, just chastely, before leaning down to wave hello to Emma. She’s learning how to say Amelia ( _Amya_ ) and Bucky ( _Key_ ), which definitely made Bucky cry the first dozen times he heard it.

Steve places his hand on the small of Bucky’s back as a habit now, and where the touch used to make Bucky want to turn and press him up against any flat surface, it now makes him feel like he’s anchored, like he belongs.

(He still also wants to press Steve up against any flat surface, but that’s a constant in Bucky’s life)

The day after the house is listed online, Steve’s email account suddenly starts blowing up with requests for murals and artworks. In rather unconventional style, the agency had made the main image for the house not one of the exterior, but the underwater themed nursery with the mural the key piece of it. The real estate agent also requests Steve’s number, because they’re fielding more calls about the artwork than the actual house, which is good for Steve but not so good for the whole house selling venture.

Bucky doesn’t run the home opens because Betty likes to do that herself, and he doesn’t want to be there while people share their unfiltered thoughts about the work he’s done, so he sits on the back porch and watches the kids play. Emma is using Sarge as a walking frame and toddling around the yard. Amelia is acting like she’s not interested by who’s in Bucky’s yard, but she’s standing on the plastic chair by the fence and glaring at everyone she sees, so Bucky’s not buying it.

Amelia winds up making a friend in a girl called Monica - whose parents end up purchasing the house later -, the pair of them chatting over the fence about whatever it is seven-year-old girls talk about.

Bucky ends up putting off settlement day, because Amelia’s invited him to school for Father’s Day morning tea and he’s learned quickly that there are more important things in life than work and money, but it happens nonetheless.

It’s only once he’s moving his things out - the very meagre supplies he’d arrived with, what felt like a lifetime ago - that Bucky stumbles across the gifts he’d bought the girls, crammed away in the back of one of the wardrobes. He spends the day putting together the cubby house and the activity station and inflating the punching bag - distracted, as so often happens, by Emma needing a feed or a change while Steve is busy in the art studio Bucky converted from the backyard shed.

The cubby doesn’t quite make it into the tree, not in one day, but it goes on Bucky’s new to-do list. Emma gets her presents early by virtue of being the only child around when Bucky completes it - and because she refuses to stop grizzling after lunch until Bucky lets her play with all the crinkly, crunchy attachments on the wooden frame.

Bucky’s plan is to present them, kind of like Christmas gifts (Christmas in June is a thing, right?), once he’s got Amelia home from school. But she doesn’t make it inside to see the other things he got, because the cubby house is _right there_ , and she’s yelling over the fence for Monica to come play with all the urgency of someone who knows the world is ending.

In fact, the only person Bucky’s able to perform a good reveal with is Steve, and that involves holding the photo frame out to him when he comes out of the studio, paint-splattered and sweaty.

“Buck,” Steve says, tracing a finger reverently just above the glass, “what’s this for?”

Bucky knew the answer when he got the gifts. Bucky knew the answer when he first met Steve Rogers, tired and over-protective, but it took a while to get there.

“Because I love you.”

And that’s enough.


End file.
